


i've heard allegations 'bout your reputation

by saunatonttu



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Choking, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, One-sided feelings, Pre-Canon, Rufus' POV, Sexual Relationship, Toxic Relationship, full warnings in Author's Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:35:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22861867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saunatonttu/pseuds/saunatonttu
Summary: Rodrigue has been a little in love with Lambert since what feels like the beginning of time itself.Rufus, Lambert's callous older brother, figures that he should use that to his advantage.
Relationships: Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd/Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius (onesided), Rufus Blaiddyd/Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius
Comments: 10
Kudos: 48





	i've heard allegations 'bout your reputation

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS (READ FIRST):
> 
> As tags suggest, this isn't going to be a particularly pleasant depiction of a relationship, if it can even be called that. Emotional and physical manipulation is involved, as well as an undernegotiated (but not non-consensual) sexual act. Also Fraldarius-typical awful coping with Feelings.
> 
> Consent is around, but it's at times reluctant/dubious consent. Take these issues into account when choosing whether to read or not.

At the Officers Academy, two facts were known of Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius.

Firstly, he was a real pretty boy with his height and subtly toned muscles that were accompanied by a soft, friendly-looking – if not a bit passive – face.

Secondly, he always hung around his house leader, the ever-charming crown prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. Coincidentally, Rufus’ little brother, the infamous troublemaker that had never ceased to get on his nerves over all the years Rufus had had the deprivilege of knowing him. 

(No, that was not right. Rufus had fallen for his charms on numerous occasions when they both were much, much younger. But things had changed. _He_ had changed. For the worse, the rest of the royal family would argue, but what did they know?)

A less-known or less-acknowledged third fact that was mostly spread over the monastery staff, but which Rufus was also privy to: Rodrigue had a gift for the healing arts – faith magic in general – which was immensely rare for a Fraldarius.

Which was why the Duke, Rodrigue’s lord father, largely considered him a failure to his house, as that gift should have been the sword arts if he were a _true_ Fraldarius heir.

Hell, Rufus had heard from former Fraldarius chambermaids that if it hadn’t been for the Crest, the Duke would firmly have accused the Duchess of an affair and disowned his eldest child without so much as a blink of an eye.

Rufus had once thought that this kind of disdain from their respective parents would bring them close to another, but that was not to be. Rodrigue’s preferred companion remained Lambert, who had no idea what it was like to have a parent be so critical of everything he did.

Rufus had been sent off to the Academy along with his brother for him to “improve on his behavior” by “emulating the crown prince”, but all Rufus really saw of his brother outside class was him pulling Rodrigue around with a much too careless grin on his face.

Rodrigue, without a failure, would stare at Lambert with a dazzled, dazed expression of wonder – his fascination as clear as any sunny, cloudless day, but Lambert was incredibly blind to it.

As was usual when it came to other people’s feelings, Rufus found. It was a bitter thought, but one he almost obsessively clung to as he watched Lambert and Rodrigue. _Blind fool._ There was some satisfaction in it, too: as much as he relished in the attention of the fairer sex, Rufus relished _more_ in his one-sided anger against his much too charming and attention-grabbing brother.

(Sometimes, he looked at Rodrigue and his windswept waves of hair and thought: _In a different world, you’d have been my Fraldarius._ )

Lambert had never known any loss in his life – and a part of Rufus, the horrible part of him that he had come to accept and revel in, wanted to change that.

From the way Lambert sometimes looked at his Fraldarius friend in return, with a touch of brighter than usual contentment, it was obvious where Rufus should start.

* * *

The opportunity came up at the annual ball, when alcohol was served and teens on the precipice of adulthood were dancing the night away. Rufus had plenty of both alcohol and dancing as the night dragged on – while being an older brother to the crown prince meant nothing when the actual prize himself was present, he knew his way around charming people who knew nothing of him.

Still, the house leader of Blue Lions would be the one with the biggest count of dances to his name by the end of the night.

Rufus didn’t care much about that when he saw the Fraldarius heir disappear from the Great Hall that had been turned into a ballroom for the night’s purposes. Following his cue to leave, Rufus waved apologetically to the girls that had been waiting to dance with him and followed the younger man. Lambert could have this, but he would have something far more satisfying than a ballroom dance.

The Ethereal Moon wasn’t as cold in Garreg Mach as it was back home in Fhirdiad, and Rufus was quite comfortable in just his slightly modified Academy uniform as he walked briskly after a considerably tipsier young man.

It wasn’t exactly difficult to see where he was going, despite the late time. It was a short walk too, for Rodrigue’s destination was right beside the hall and the walk there really only took five minutes at most.

Rufus caught up to him about halfway to the knights’ hall despite not hurrying his steps at all, as Rodrigue appeared to be too deep in his thoughts and Lambert-induced misery to put any effort into moving his legs. He came to a complete halt when Rufus called out to him not exactly cheerfully but more casually than he did to most people.

They were supposedly childhood friends, Rodrigue and he. Though they had never been meant to be that. Not with Lambert around.

Rodrigue looked over his shoulder unsteadily, mouth not lifting upwards when he saw him. “Your… Highness,” he said, struggling not to slur the words. Only then did his lips flick between a half-hearted smile and a slight frown. “Whatever are you out for?”

“Saw you leaving the party, little Fraldarius,” he said easily. The nickname was almost as many years old as the time he had known Rodrigue for. “Wished to make sure you were all right.”

Rodrigue’s half-hearted smile died. His hand rose to shakily brush hair behind his ear, and his head turned away from Rufus’ direct line of vision. His words were a little slow, but they were steady this time when they came. “I… needed fresh air. There is no need to worry over me, Your Highness.”

“It’s a cold night out here,” Rufus said. “It would be terrible if you passed out here, all alone.”

“It’s no colder than in Fraldarius.”

“Allow me to join you, regardless.” Rufus closed the distance between them, sliding his hand over Rodrigue’s shoulder when the other didn’t walk away, gaze directed at nothing in particular. “Is it something my fool of a brother did?”

“Do not call him that,” Rodrigue sighed, and the weariness in his voice gave it away. Rufus had to bite back a smile as Rodrigue turned his gaze to him, lips pursed but parting as he tacked on the necessary “Your Highness”.

“Respecting your elders is good and all,” Rufus said with a dragging drawl to his voice and a roll of his eyes, “but we both know I’m not very princely, so enough of that, Rodrigue.” Pushing himself closer, his cheek nearly pressing to Rodrigue’s temple, he continued, “What did he do now?”

Rodrigue had never been great with physical contact. Rufus knew this, and that was why he held onto Rodrigue’s shoulder just tight enough for the obviously tipsy young man to be unable to free himself from the grip.

“Rufus,” Rodrigue complained and squirmed, as he always did when Rufus refused to acknowledge his boundaries.

“Tell me,” Rufus said lightly – and insincerely. “I’ll scold him for mistreating his dearest _friend_ for you.”

Being as close to Rodrigue as he was – physically – it was impossible to miss the Fraldarius heir’s flinch.

His mouth curling, Rufus couldn’t resist saying, “But that’s not what you want to be to him, huh?”

Rodrigue’s head turned further away from his prying eyes, and for the longest moment he didn’t say anything as Rufus’ fingers idly stroked at his shoulder. “He received another confession,” he said at length, voice so quiet it would have drowned under the wind had the air around them moved any faster. “I… suppose it got to me, a little. How happy he was about it.”

No matter how Rufus tried, people always flocked around Lambert more. Lambert got more confessions, more lovestruck gazes, more _attention_.

As a child, it didn’t use to bother him so much. As he grew older, however…

Lambert had been born when Rufus was barely four – he had no memory of a life when he was a priority in anyone’s eyes or minds.

How ironic that the heir to House Fraldarius should understand how painful it felt.

“He has always been like that,” Rufus said, his thoughts getting the better of him just for a moment, with bitterness seeping in. Temperature seemed to drop by several degrees as he spoke. “The apple of everyone’s eye.”

Not too far away, classical and so painfully typical ballroom music continued playing – vibrant, carefree, joyful, unless the violinists decided to fuck around for once. They rarely did.

Rodrigue said nothing over the sound of music. He didn’t particularly need to; Rufus knew well how he pined after Lambert. He had been around the two for nearly his entire life, for better or for worse. He’d have to be particularly dense to not see the lovelorn gazes Rodrigue threw at Lambert.

If there was one thing Rufus could stop Lambert from having –

“You know what helps with this, little Fraldarius?” he asked. Too light, too comfortable, as he lifted Rodrigue’s head toward him. In the dim moonlight, the stormy grey of his eyes almost went hidden and indiscernible, but Rufus could see them widen – and that was just the reaction he had sought for. He smiled, encouraging and charming. “A distraction.”

Rodrigue’s expression twisted with confusion – his face had always been especially expressive, Rufus found, when you knew where to look at. Tinged with tipsiness and incomprehension, it was rather endearing a sight, what with the aristocratic serenity so far gone from it.

Rufus had been wanting to tear that composure away.

He tipped his head low toward Rodrigue’s, who had gone rigid in his hold. He had never been fond of physical affection from anyone but Lambert – the Gautier heir had never fought the boundaries, because he was more polite than one would expect of a Gautier, but Rufus liked pushing Rodrigue’s buttons.

Hadn’t done it like this before, though.

“You can pretend it’s him, if you like,” he said in a casually self-destructive way, his words breathed over Rodrigue’s face. “I keep hearing I look an awful lot like him from certain angles.”

“What – what are you even suggesting?” Rodrigue asked, quietly but not weakly as Rufus turned him around completely and pulled him against himself. The Fraldarius heir was too startled to fight it, eyes wide as they locked with Rufus’ again now that his head no longer had to crane awkwardly to look at the prince.

“Come now,” Rufus said and ran his thumb over Rodrigue’s lower lip. “You cannot be that dense.”

“Rufus, I—do not think—”

The stutter was real cute, but it couldn’t distract Rufus from the heat of the flush spreading across Rodrigue’s face as Rufus moved his hand to cup the cheek that had yet to lose all of its roundness. The night was cold, but Rodrigue’s skin was warm, and Rufus smiled.

“Just trust me, won’t you?” he said. “I’ll make you feel tons better, if you let me.”

_If you can’t have Lambert, then at least you can have the leftovers, right?_

It was his only true selling point, after all – being just close enough relation to the Crown Prince to matter as a second thought. Just close enough resemblance to be _close enough_ to the real thing.

He didn’t voice his thoughts. He didn’t _need_ to. He knew how people thought, _what_ they thought. Both the people he sought out at night and the people society labeled as his family by their sharing of blood.

His only value lay in his relation to Lambert, so why not use it to his own advantage, he figured.

In this case it was rather fortunate, and Rodrigue’s hesitation spoke volumes in the dark Ethereal night.

Rufus continued, “It isn’t as though he wants to do those things with you, you know.”

The expression of unadulterated hurt that spread over Rodrigue’s face then shouldn’t have felt as good as it did, but Rufus was well above pretending he was the good person everyone wished he were.

_Might as well take what you can._

Thank the Goddess that the knights were away from their hall and the path leading up to it tonight, for they surely would have stopped him. They were so humorless, these knights of Saint Seiros.

When he leaned down to press his mouth against Rodrigue’s, he met with no resistance – only quiet, shameful acceptance in the way Rodrigue’s hand reached to hold onto him for the sake of balance and how his head tilted agreeably to slot their mouths more comfortably.

Rufus was pretty sure it was the first time Rodrigue was kissing anyone. The thought had him smiling and humming pleasantly: the pleasure of robbing someone of their first something was ever so sweet, even if coming in first rarely mattered in reality.

He should know, being a first-born child and yet tossed aside for the sake of his little brother.

But both Rodrigue and Lambert were silly romantics at heart still, young and naïve as they were. Eighteen they may be, but they hardly knew the ways of the world – or relationships.

Those who-was-your-first things still mattered to them, and if Rufus played his cards right, he could make sure they would always matter.

When Rodrigue’s lips parted under his in a noiseless gasp, he knew he was on the path to do just that.

Awful, how he didn’t even feel a drop of regret at the thought.

* * *

The night of the ball wasn’t the last time Rufus had the honor of tasting the Fraldarius mouth. In fact, he got to do so quite frequently from there on – at first from his own initiation, but soon they had formed a wordless pact to withdraw back to Rufus’ dorm room between classes and the chores the monastery staff loved to assign to the students.

Rodrigue’s inexperience had been so painfully obvious, but what soon became even clearer was how affection-starved the younger man was. Not that it was surprising: Duke Fraldarius, to Rufus’ eyes, had never seemed like man generous with either physical or verbal affection, not even with his Crest-blessed child.

(So very, _very_ different from how Lambert was treated.)

Rodrigue always behaved as though human touch repulsed him – when it wasn’t Lambert that threw his arm around his shoulders, when it wasn’t Lambert that held hid hand – but from the way he shifted uncomfortably beneath Rufus on his bed, how his hands seemed to attempt to both push him away and pull him in, it was obvious how he craved it as much as he loathed it. _Jackpot_ , Rufus thought when he realized it right before diving right back in to claim Rodrigue’s mouth for his own.

Doing that had yet to lose its thrill for Rufus.

Every kiss was a victory laid at Rufus’ feet, every breathy sigh from Rodrigue a distasteful satisfaction that Rufus could not get enough of.

 _He wouldn’t do this with you_ , he thought viciously – gleefully – as he took a nip at Rodrigue’s lower lip, shuddering despite himself when Rodrigue’s fingers threaded into his hair and nearly pulled off the hair tie upholding the loose ponytail.

“Rufus,” he sometimes muttered between their kisses, out of breath and sounding utterly lost. When Rufus pulled back to look at him, his face would be flushed and eyes scrunched shut, leaving a wrinkle on the bridge of his nose. Rodrigue’s wavy hair undone, splayed around his head on Rufus’ mattress. Legs trembling where they framed Rufus’ outer thighs.

Whether Rodrigue intended his mutter as a protest or not never quite mattered, as he didn’t push Rufus away when he leaned down again to work on bruising his neck with lips and teeth. He really ought to pay attention to it, but—

He just didn’t _want_ to. If Rodrigue regretted this later, that would be his issue, not Rufus’.

(Despite their rocky moments at the beginning of the Academy year – a broken nose Rufus had earned by badmouthing Lambert just a _little_ too loudly – Rodrigue’s trust in him remained. Politically and academically smart he may be, but life had yet to brush his naivety aside.)

Would be a shame if such a soft pair of lips went wasted, after all.

On one such day when Rufus found himself locking lips with Rodrigue on his bed, they were both startled by heavy-knuckled raps against the door.

A clear, familiar voice followed. “Rufus?”

Rodrigue, who had just been about to lose himself in their kisses, went as rigid as an icicle beneath Rufus as soon as the voice rang out.

Sigh.

Just when things were starting to get good, with Rufus’ hand _just_ having sneaked beneath Rodrigue’s uniform shirt. Rufus exhaled, annoyed, before calling out, “What is it, Lambert?”

He maintained eye contact with Rodrigue meanwhile and, alright, it was almost as good to see the horror reflected in Rodrigue’s eyes as it was to make out with him. Almost. “Stay quiet,” he said under his breath, pressing his thumb against Rodrigue’s hip bone. “He won’t come in unless you give him reason to.”

Lambert had learned not to enter his space without knocking years ago. It had been a slow lesson to sink in, but it finally had the umpteenth time Lambert walked in on Rufus getting busy with a visiting noble heiress.

He shouldn’t be coming in without permission, but…

Rufus’ pulse picked up.

“It feels silly talking to you from here,” Lambert called out from behind the door. Unlocked, as was the standard for the Academy dorms even for noble students. Rufus could feel Rodrigue shiver beneath him.

It would be quite the compromising situation for Lambert to walk in on, wouldn’t it?

“Too bad,” Rufus said, just loudly enough for Lambert to hear for sure. “I am quite busy at the moment, _little brother_.”

Whether Lambert caught onto the spite in his voice, Rufus didn’t know. Lambert had ignored it so far in their interactions – perhaps completely blind to it, as he was to his own and Rodrigue’s feelings.

And that man was to be the king?

Ridiculous.

Lambert’s sigh was audibly deep, but the door didn’t open. “As you wish. Join Rodrigue and I for dinner this evening, then?”

Beneath Rufus, Rodrigue made a muffled, long-suffering sound.

“Of course,” Rufus said, just to ruffle his feathers more. “See you then, Lambert.”

“Take care, Rufus.” And with that, it seemed as though Lambert was finally gone and Rufus could turn his full attention back to the flustered Fraldarius beneath him. The flush was so painfully obvious against the pale coloring of his face, though Rufus could not say he disliked it.

Rodrigue was usually a little harder to fluster, despite his difficult relationship with touching and letting himself experience touch, but now he seemed to be wishing for Rufus’ mattress to sink in and give way to a hole all the way down to Garreg Mach’s underground levels. Poor thing, though. He wouldn’t find a hiding place from there, regardless of what was said of the Abyss.

“Well then,” Rufus said, lifting an eyebrow in a manner he _knew_ was quite like Lambert. “Where were we?”

Rodrigue’s hand, the one that had remained stiffly amid Rufus’ hair, pulled away as though it had been burned. “I – ought to go,” Rodrigue muttered, his gaze as far away from Rufus’ eyes as possible in the small space between them. Panic, Rufus thought, flashed across the deep blue-grey eyes as they looked at anything but him. “Rufus. Get off. I must—”

“The horses can wait a little longer, can’t they?”

“No, they cannot,” Rodrigue said very firmly for someone whose face was as red as Adrestian apples. “I am afraid I truly must get going.”

Who was Rufus to keep Rodrigue from going after that?

He had more courtesy than some people perhaps expected from him, and so he rolled off of Rodrigue and watched the other hastily tidy himself up.

“See you around at dinner,” he called after Rodrigue as he was about to exit the room, and his mouth curled into a grin when Rodrigue visibly stiffened just as he opened the door. Rufus couldn’t help but add, “Or sooner, if you’d like.”

The door shut firmly but didn’t make much of a sound.

Rufus briefly wondered, as he dug his palm into his uniform pants, whether Rodrigue had noticed him getting a little bit ahead of himself earlier.

Perhaps.

Rufus certainly wouldn’t have minded if he had noticed.

* * *

He jerked himself off considering the possibility of Lambert actually walking in without knocking and so getting an eyeful of Rufus upon his dearest friend since childhood. Was it strange how hard it made Rufus?

Maybe. He didn’t really give a damn as he finished himself off with a twist of his wrist and a satisfied groan stumbling past his mouth after.

The dinner afterwards was just as delightfully awkward as he had expected, though Rodrigue certainly did his best to keep a serene face and not flinch whenever Rufus purposely brushed their fingers together when they both happened to reach for salt. Didn’t _quite_ manage to keep eye contact when Rufus grinned and winked, though.

Lambert was many things, and brilliantly (stupidly) oblivious was one of them. He had yet to catch onto what was happening around him, after all.

* * *

Months passed by quickly without Lambert noticing that perhaps something was up with his friend and older brother. _Dense_ , Rufus thought when he felt charitable and most amiable toward his little brat of a sibling.

He entertained worse thoughts too, but he had enough distractions to keep himself from wallowing in them. Lambert’s precious friend among those, of course. Over the weeks and months, he had spent many late afternoons familiarizing himself with the taste and feel of Rodrigue’s lips and the softness of the silky locks of midnight dark hair.

It hadn’t gone beyond kissing until their lips were bruised and hands fumbling beneath their uniform shirts, but the night before the graduation ceremony was the perfect chance to change that, Rufus figured.

They usually didn’t go at it in Rodrigue’s room, located in the middle between Rufus and Lambert’s, for Lambert hadn’t quite yet realized he should offer his friend the same courtesy of knocking as he did Rufus. That night was different, however, as Rufus sneaked into Rodrigue’s room just past the curfew time.

Not that anyone was upholding the curfew at this time of year, between the approaching departure of graduating students and the arrival of new ones.

Rodrigue hadn’t gone to sleep yet, and had his back turned to the door when Rufus slipped in. Obviously catching the creaking noise it caused, Rodrigue sighed, “What is it now, Lambert—”

“Try again, little Fraldarius.”

Rufus’ lips curled up at the way Rodrigue’s back visibly stiffened at the sound of his voice and how rigidly he turned his head to look over his shoulder warily. “Your Highness,” he said, cautiously. His hands stilled where they had been about to pull the waistcoat off. Rufus’ eyes lingered there, and Rodrigue’s mouth pursed. “What are you doing here?”

In best case, to fuck him as a farewell to the long months they both spent at the monastery doing the church’s business for them.

“What do you think?” he asked and raised an eyebrow. “Come now, you’re a smart man.”

“ _Your Highness,_ ” Rodrigue said emphatically, though he didn’t meet Rufus’ eyes anymore. “It’s too late for that.”

He didn’t move away when Rufus closed the distance, didn’t resist when Rufus’ fingers brushed dark hair away from his face. He was used to this – he _craved_ it, Rufus knew, though the words never left Rodrigue’s mouth directly.

“On the contrary,” Rufus said softly, his fingers dipping beneath Rodrigue’s chin and pushing it upward until their eyes met again. Stormy blue grey met lighter grey, and the world stilled for a moment. Rufus smiled. “I think it’s the perfect time for this.”

It had been at least a week since they had last locked lips – should have left Rodrigue aching for it by now, according to the laws of the push-and-pull games that belonged in courting and seduction. So when Rufus leaned down and closed the gap between them, he wasn’t surprised by the involuntary sigh against his lips.

Rufus’ other hand reached for Rodrigue’s hip and found it, pulling the other’s body close. Firm and warm as ever, though muscle had yet to fill all the gaps left behind by Rodrigue’s recent growth spurt.

When Rufus pulled his mouth back, it was only for a low murmur of, “I know you’ve missed this” before kissing Rodrigue again. This time, hands moved away from the Fraldarius heir’s waistcoat to the front of Rufus’ shirt – to push away, to pull him in? Hard to say, and Rufus didn’t really care as he nipped hard at Rodrigue’s lips.

Rodrigue didn’t push him away. Instead, he gave a little sigh and tilted his head to accommodate Rufus, who smiled in response.

He rather liked how Rodrigue tasted, rather liked the humiliated pleasure that radiated off Rodrigue in waves from every gesture he made. The Fraldarius had been trained in almost everything but _this_ , the fragile art of touching and feeling, and it left him so, so vulnerable as he allowed Rufus to keep at it. He had learned death before he learned how to appreciate touch from another.

It was the same story for them all, really.

They ended up on Rodrigue’s bed after some fumbling around and wordlessly tossing waistcoats and jackets off their way. A familiar scene, though rarely repeated in Rodrigue’s own space – perhaps that was why Rodrigue was so out of breath already beneath Rufus, his body trembling with want and fear of being discovered in this position.

“Think of him if you’d like,” Rufus said, not for the first time over the duration of their “arrangement”. It was as cruel a thing to say now as it had been the earlier times, and Rufus still found bitter enjoyment in how rigid Rodrigue momentarily went beneath him. Rufus’ lips brushed against the shell of Rodrigue’s ear, and his hand gripped the back of his thigh, before whispering, “I’ll make it real good for you.”

“Rufus,” Rodrigue sighed, eyes shut and brows wrinkled as if he were in pain when Rufus peered at him. “This is – hardly appropriate.”

Even still, Rodrigue’s arms stayed around Rufus’ shoulders where they had draped themselves at some point.

Even still, his legs stayed where they were, with Rufus slotted between them. 

Even still, Rodrigue parted his lips for him when Rufus kissed him, hard and sweet and with a bit too much teeth.

“You want it, though,” Rufus murmured against that mouth, pressing himself further against Rodrigue until he felt the telltale sign of Rodrigue’s arousal against his. Raising his pitch just a little higher, he knew he sounded like Lambert when he said, quiet and tender, “Don’t lie to me now, Rodrigue.”

The reaction was immediate: Rodrigue groaned miserably and pulled Rufus down to his lips, hand moving into Rufus’ hair and trembling as it settled into the blond locks.

Victory, as ever, tasted much like the candy merchants brought up from south, spicy and sweet at the same time. A taste Rufus never tired of – he had never won much when it came to his brother and family, but he could win at _this_.

How Rufus wished the walls were thinner so Lambert could catch an earful of his dear friend giving himself up.

* * *

Said victory was short-lived, however: Rodrigue insisted that he would not allow Rufus into his body, and while it didn’t surprise Rufus, it still disappointed him. Some convictions could not be shaken – abstinence until marriage apparently one of those.

Still, it was not a total loss.

Rufus still got to wrap his hand around Rodrigue’s cock and jerk him off, his chest pressed against Rodrigue’s back and lips whispering indecent things into his ear. He had the honor of hearing the quiet noises Rodrigue made at the height of his pleasure, the honor of having Rodrigue choke out his name instead of Lambert’s.

He got to rub himself against Rodrigue’s ass, to tease him with what was likely inevitable in the future despite Rodrigue’s insistence on abstaining for now.

It was good enough to know Rodrigue would be thinking of him long afterwards when they returned to their territories.

A great graduation gift for one Rufus Algernon Blaiddyd, truly.

* * *

As Rufus still remained in Fhirdiad – not yet shoved to the fortress-like Castle Itha to watch over the territory given to him as a consolation for losing his birthright to the throne – he got the chance to meet Rodrigue a few times in the following months as the Fraldarius heir accompanied his stern father to the capital.

They didn’t end up getting physical every time, as Rodrigue spent considerable amount of time with Lambert and observing council meetings with his lord father, but Rufus still managed to get a few kisses here and there while he got his fix of sex with other people.

(The Adrestian visitors tended to take to him – for looking less of a brute than other Faerghan nobles. _Classically handsome_ , they called him. It was the ponytail, wasn’t it?)

When Lambert’s engagement was announced, Rufus expected that to change. Perhaps Rodrigue’s surface level serenity would finally crack and vanish and he’d come seeking Rufus out himself. The young woman that had the misfortune of being engaged to Lambert – and marrying him in very near future, as the still-reigning king wished to see his heir marry before his own timely death – was real pretty and soft, with intelligent eyes and hair that would have made silk itself weep with envy.

They made a striking couple, really, when their engagement was announced at the ball held for Faerghus’ Foundation Day. The Fraldarius heir attended it, witnessed the announcement, and wore a mask of contentment so convincingly Rufus almost believed him.

(But Rodrigue was only 19, and still not quite experienced enough to hide the yearning completely. _Poor thing_ , Rufus would think if he cared for his feelings.)

He didn’t manage to find the time to seek him out then, though, as he too was introduced to way too many potential fiancées at the event as a rare indication of the king actually remembering he had another son.

That said, Rufus wasn’t going to partake in anything his father planned for him, asides from taking Castle Itha under his control after Lambert would eventually ascend to the throne.

So, the ball came and went, and months passed with Castle Fhirdiad bustling with the planning of a spring wedding. House Fraldarius assisted the best they could, even from afar. Rufus wrote to Rodrigue a few times around that time, mostly to tease him, though Rodrigue didn’t take the bait. Especially not when Rufus’ letters took on more explicit wording and suggestions.

And then… it was already time for the wedding, a little over a year after they graduated from the Officers Academy.

* * *

The ceremony itself was dull and took much too long for Rufus’ liking, especially when he was expected to sit still and quiet in a much too cold cathedral while Lambert and his beloved bride swore their eternities to each other while the Archbishop watched on with a serene smile on her face. It was all so – _romantic_ , it made Rufus nauseous to even be nearby.

The royal family occupied the front row of the pews, and so Rufus had a clear view of Lambert’s gently lovestruck face as he exchanged those vows with his bride, both their hands wrapped around the hilt of a sword, as per usual for Faerghan wedding traditions.

 _Let your love be as fierce as a blade_ , and all that.

The guests from House Fraldarius were seated behind the royal family, and Rufus had the strongest urge to turn back to watch Rodrigue’s reactions to what was happening at the altar. Alas, he could not. Not without gaining unwanted attention.

As ever, the King furrowed his impressively greying brows at him when Rufus so much as twitched on his seat. Disapproval, disappointment, whichever it was, Rufus didn’t care much for it.

Lambert’s bride, at least, was very pleasant to the eye, but even so – Rodrigue’s well-contained misery was a sight Rufus found himself preferring in his thoughts, and the reception celebrations could not come fast enough.

“I swear my life to thee,” Lambert’s voice rang loud, clear, even as it quivered with emotion. “You have my heart till the day it bleeds out – I swear this upon this sword, and I swear it upon myself.”

“And I swear myself to you,” his bride replied, her voice even and steady to match Lambert’s trembling vowels, “for as long as I live, and for the life after.”

Had this been a ceremony open for everyone, perhaps the witnesses would have broken out cheering at the declaration of devotion.

As it was, Rufus had to restrain himself from gagging aloud as the deathly silence in the chilly cathedral would not be able to hide it.

Must be nice, that so-called true love.

* * *

The reception party back within the castle walls was much more like Rufus’ preferred scene, as it was easier to lose himself in the noise around him and the taste of ice wine on his lips. The newlywed couple had taken to the ballroom floor for their first dance, but Rufus’ eyes skipped right through them as he looked for any sign of midnight blue hair and an abundance of teal fabric.

It wasn’t as though Rodrigue were the only person Rufus could amuse himself with – but he _was_ the most entertaining one out there, considering the storm of his feelings that must be eating the Fraldarius heir up on the inside. Rufus always enjoyed circling around those kinds of people.

People with throbbing wounds in their hearts that he could prod at and ruin further.

Not the best habit, anyone would say, but Rufus found a certain thrill in it.

He found Rodrigue when his eyes returned to the dancefloor – other couples had joined the newlyweds in dance by then, and among them was the tall, dark-haired Fraldarius, guiding a young lady into a slow waltz. Rufus could see Rodrigue’s head tilting down as he said something to his companion, his tied-up hair swaying with the movement.

At nineteen, the Fraldarius heir was a pretty thing to gaze at, prettier even than he’d been at the Academy. Dressed up for the occasion, in dark blue and teal, he made quite the sight – only losing to the newlyweds in attention, Rufus noted.

Well, that simply wouldn’t do.

Rufus winked and offered his hand for one of their Adrestian guests – people came from _far_ for the Blaiddyd heir’s wedding – before setting out to mix amongst the growing number of dancing couples taking to the floor. At the center of it all, Lambert and his bride still swayed together, eyes on each other as though the world surrounding them had ceased to exist.

A good, loving older brother would have been glad.

Rufus only felt sick to his stomach.

( _You’ll never have that._ )

Avoiding the merry couple was difficult, as Rodrigue and his partner danced close to them, the old friends occasionally quipping something at one another over the music and other people’s dance steps clicking off the stone floor. Rufus watched this from a distance, lips pursed briefly before he returned his attention to his own partner, a petite and pretty Adrestian lady that really would make a good lay any other time.

Rufus changed to another partner at the end of the song, but Lambert and Rodrigue held onto theirs – and did so for a couple songs longer, until the queen consort of the Kingdom came to fetch her youngest son and the king to steal his son’s bride into a dance with her new in-law. A nice family gathering.

Rufus stayed away from the floor from there on, opting to sip from a glass of the famed Gautier ice wine instead as he kept an eye out for the Fraldarius heir that had vanished off somewhere again. Perhaps he had escaped the Duke Fraldarius, unwilling to deal with his lord father’s attempts at arranging a marriage for him at his friend’s wedding.

In the end, after some more songs and a couple more glasses of ice wine, Rufus left to look for him, mind fixated on the teal ribbon Rodrigue had tied his hair up with and the calm façade that he wanted to break apart by the time the night was over.

Many things could be said about Rufus Algernon Blaiddyd, but no one could claim that he wasn’t a man of action when it came to the things he wanted.

(Usually people he wished to pull under his bedsheets for the night.)

* * *

He had expected to find Rodrigue down at the stables, far away from the bustle of the wedding celebrations, but where he ended up finding the Fraldarius heir were the castle gardens instead. Well-tended by the court mages, the gardens were flush with color even through the first days of the new year, and Rodrigue nearly disappeared among the flowers and bushes in the night.

Castle Fhirdiad’s gardens were nowhere near as impressive as those in Enbarr, of course. Faerghan castles were built for protection and endurance for most part, not luxury and whimsy, and from solid stone instead of pretty marble – though stories claimed the castle had been _much_ more austere during Loog’s time than it was now, no ornaments or murals to be found anywhere. At least the later kings had taken up some decorating, if nothing else – the ballrooms especially were almost beautiful.

So it was natural that the gardens were much smaller and simpler. Still, Rufus liked them well enough. Always a good choice as a place to get a little bit of hands-on distraction going on.

When Rufus found him, Rodrigue was sitting on one of the oaken benches situated just out of sight from anyone looking down from the balconies situated above.

He might wish to be left alone, but Rufus would not give him that.

When Rufus approached him, Rodrigue moved to rise with the haste of a startled bird. “Your Highness—"

“None of that,” Rufus said dismissively, and even in the evening darkness that had settled in the garden, he could see Rodrigue’s shoulders slump with the hint of disappointment. _Wrong Blaiddyd_ , as usual. Rufus’ lips curled into a sneer as he sat down. “As my brother is _horribly_ busy with his bride, I decided to check up on his dearest friend. So. How fare you, little Fraldarius?”

Rodrigue sat back down, almost bonelessly, at his words. It was dark, but the moonlight was enough for Rufus to catch the way Rodrigue’s nose pinched and lips curled. “I am – content,” he said. Careful. Trying to hide weakness from the one person that already knew of its existence. “I have hardly ever seen him happier.”

“How saintly of you,” Rufus said as he leaned toward him and pressed his hand over Rodrigue’s knee. Rufus’ eyes narrowed further, and his other arm draped itself around Rodrigue’s shoulders that had grown a little wider since the last time they met. His mouth whispered to Rodrigue, “He’ll never look at you that way, and yet you still waste your heart on him.”

A sharp intake of breath, and the atmosphere shifted as Rodrigue ground out, gentle despite the force behind the words, “It is not wasted on him.”

“Spoken like a true masochist,” Rufus murmured, smiling when Rodrigue’s shoulders tensed under his arm. The heady scents of much too early blooming flowers had him wrinkle his nose the next moment, or perhaps it was the thought of Rodrigue’s _pure_ adoration of his little brother. How he wanted to rip it apart – that affection that lingered, that seemingly unconditional love that Lambert only got because he was blessed with a Crest and thus Rodrigue’s promised Blaiddyd.

In a better world, Rufus would have been the one with the Crest, the one Rodrigue trailed after like a particularly well-conditioned pet.

But even if that world didn’t exist, Rufus still got to have this: a lingering moment in the castle gardens in the darkness of Fhirdiad’s evening, his hands on a man that tried to sweep the falling pieces of his own heart beneath a metaphorical rug.

The weak and the vulnerable were always the easiest to snare in.

“There is no need to be so somber tonight,” Rufus continued and brought his hand up from Rodrigue’s knee to his cheek, gently turning Rodrigue’s head toward his until their eyes locked. “Lambert might ignore you, but I won’t.”

Rodrigue exhaled – his breath warm and shallow against Rufus’ lips. Beneath Rufus’ thumb, a humiliated blush rose.

A year had not chipped much away from the Rodrigue Rufus remembered from school.

“It wasn’t him who kissed you senseless at the Academy,” Rufus said, pushing his thumb over Rodrigue’s cheek. Frozen stiff from whatever reason, Rodrigue didn’t stop him as Rufus leaned in closer until their lips touched briefly. “I remember how you trembled on my bed, begging to be kissed more.”

“I do not recall begging,” Rodrigue muttered. Rufus felt the shiver that went through him then, as his fingers curled into the front of Rufus’ royal blue tunic.

“Not out loud,” Rufus acknowledged, his hand trailing down to Rodrigue’s bare neck, under the short ponytail of wavy hair. “Your body, however…”

He drew Rodrigue in for a proper kiss then, lips meeting firmly rather than keeping to the flirt of touch. The taste of ice wine invaded Rufus’ senses, made heavier with Rodrigue’s natural taste, and he licked his way into Rodrigue’s mouth to chase more of it.

Rodrigue remained passive – an onlooker instead of a participant – but that only gave Rufus more room to claim his mouth as his while Rodrigue’s hand stayed pressed against his chest. Rufus’ eyes remained half-open through it, peering at fluttering lashes all the while pushing his tongue against another.

Rufus could pinpoint the exact moment Rodrigue gave in to the pretense that it was Lambert kissing him this way instead.

It was when Rodrigue’s eyes shut completely, when his brows wrinkled in short-lived despair – when his hand gripped his tunic tighter, when he gasped into his mouth.

That shouldn’t have given as much pleasure to Rufus as it did. He had always told Rodrigue to imagine Lambert in his place, but it wasn’t supposed to send his blood rushing the way it did now.

(Fucked up was what it was – this whole situation, and himself most of all.)

Rodrigue’s tongue rubbed against his, and the sounds that resulted were downright filthy – if anyone walked down to the gardens, they’d immediately figure out what was happening.

Rufus didn’t care. That was the point of this eventually, wasn’t it? For Lambert to find out what Rufus had already taken from him—

Out of breath, they were forced apart, forced to acknowledge the distant music and joy that was far removed from both of their current moods.

A cold wind whistled by, carrying with it the remaining chill of recently passed winter. Rufus’ bare fingers brushed over Rodrigue’s pulse on his neck – oh, how wonderfully fast it raced from the kiss; how it roused a deep hunger within Rufus – and he said, “You only need to ask if you wish for more, little Fraldarius. You need not spend the night alone while my brother frolics with his bride.”

 _Little_ Fraldarius wasn’t really so small anymore – even if Rufus still towered over him with his impressive 190+ centimeters – but the nickname stayed the same regardless.

Rodrigue was still the same emotionally naïve little boy Rufus remembered from many years ago, albeit a little less depressing to be around.

That much was evident in the miserable, half-lidded stare Rodrigue offered him in response. Rufus only barely suppressed the smile threatening to creep upon his face as he continued, caressing Rodrigue’s pulse point with his thumb, “It’s the closest thing you’ll ever have to the real one, isn’t it?”

Rodrigue’s entire body appeared to sag at his words. Rufus had to fight harder to not smile gleefully at that.

Hook, line, and sinker – as the common phrase went.

“Misery loves company, and I’d be more than glad to have yours,” Rufus continued, pressing a kiss on the side of Rodrigue’s mouth. And another, to the center this time, for those touch-starved lips could hardly have enough of them.

Rodrigue’s fingers curled tighter in Rufus’ royal blue tunic, quivering with effort.

“Your Highness,” Rodrigue said, quietly. He said nothing more – voice fading into a hesitant and pregnant pause, which Rufus used to his own advantage by taking a teasing nip at the other’s lips again.

Rodrigue’s sigh, when it sounded through the mellow night around them, was that of surrender.

* * *

For better or for worse, the two princes’ chambers were located right next to one another – which had irritated Rufus in the past plenty but now it was rather convenient. If not for anything else, then for his own self-indulgent fantasies that involved letting Lambert hear just how good care he was taking of his dear, _dear_ friend they had both grown alongside with.

They passed through many halls and by many people, some who seemed determined to get into the young Fraldarius heir’s good graces but who Rufus shooed off rather rudely with a raised eyebrow. The entire castle seemed to be bustling with people, much to Rufus’ growing irritation, but finally they made it to the quieter corridors where only servants went by. From the whispers Rufus caught them exchanging one another, it was safe to say his little brother had made it there before them.

Rufus squeezed at Rodrigue’s hip, not minding how Rodrigue tried to cover his face from the sight of anyone walking by.

No room for second thoughts now, not that Rufus ever had any of those.

Rufus’ retainer was nowhere to be seen either as they made it through the wide oaken doors that led into his chambers. Thank the (often cruel) Goddess for that – he got in the way of his (admittedly selfish) pleasure with that impressive frown of his and his general no-nonsense attitude that Rufus had yet to manage shed off him. A good man and a soldier Sir Lonato might be, but Rufus would prefer him to not get in his way.

The oldest Blaiddyd prince’s bed chamber was more decorated than the crown prince’s: decorative weapons littered both their rooms, but Rufus’ walls were covered with landscape paintings of both Faerghus and Adrestia alike, which Lambert’s chamber had a definite lack of. The banner of his homeland had been tossed away a long time ago in a fit of petulant rage, replaced with nondescript white-and-blue banners.

(White as the snowy days of Faerghus, blue as the lakes and sky above – the two colors that ruled the country.)

Rodrigue hadn’t been in there for years now, not since they had both been kids and Rufus just recently assigned to his own room that was just slightly less glorious than the one that would later be Lambert’s.

And he had certainly never been invited to Rufus’ bed – wide, sized for a king that he would never be, with a mattress fitting for even the most sensitive of princesses – but the firstborn prince of Faerghus would be more than content to get the Fraldarius heir acquainted with it.

When the doors behind them closed with a loud, distinct _thud_ , Rufus pushed Rodrigue against the hard, oaken surface of them and kissed him roughly into senselessness, relishing in the audible gasp that escaped the other man and the hand that came to grip his hair. To keep Rufus there, or to support himself, it didn’t matter.

It was still _him_ Rodrigue’s hands held onto, not his little brother, and the thought awakened Rufus’ deep-seated hunger all over again.

His hands gripped Rodrigue’s waist hard enough to bruise through thick clothing. Rodrigue didn’t seem to mind it as he tugged at Rufus’ hair for a better angle, though the touch held only a trembling, fleeting fraction of Rodrigue’s normal strength.

A gasp, a groan, a rough whisper of Rufus’ name.

This was what Rufus had been aiming for ever since the night of the ball at the Academy, and to have it so close had his body surge with raw, unapologetic thrill.

 _Mine_ , his thoughts hissed as he claimed Rodrigue’s mouth, as he thrust his hips against his. The low whine from the depths of Rodrigue’s throat vibrated on their connected lips, and _oh_ , Rodrigue’s starvation for any kind of affection was as bad as it had ever been.

Despite that, he had never been particularly loud.

Rufus wondered if he could make that change.

* * *

When they made it to the bed, Rufus had shed off his outer tunic and the skintight shirt beneath it, while Rodrigue was mostly naked already. Flushed skin exposed and readily available for Rufus’ hands to slide on as he pushed the man down against blue and white sheets. He reached for the nightstand beside the bed and from there on, Rufus was on familiar territory and it didn’t take too long get to the good stuff.

“Do you think he’s right behind that wall making love to his pretty wife right about now?” Rufus whispered between the fleeting kisses and bites he blessed upon Rodrigue’s neck and shoulder, just high enough to warrant careful dressing the next morning. When Rodrigue stiffened – and not in the pleasant way his cock did – Rufus continued, unashamed of how awful he was being, “Must be enjoyable. That true and sweet love they have.”

Rodrigue didn’t say anything – or rather, couldn’t say anything as Rufus’ oiled fingers spread inside him. Instead, he groaned, and Rufus watched those pretty eyelashes flutter from either distraction or pleasure.

Still a little too quiet for Rufus’ liking, but they had barely gotten started.

As he stretched Rodrigue further, Lambert remained on his mind. His potential reactions flashed through Rufus’ mind – would he understand his own attraction to Rodrigue, which was so obvious to Rufus’ eyes, or would he remain blind but uncomfortable – and none of them were displeasing.

 _Mine_ , Rufus’ thoughts hissed again as Rodrigue trembled and flushed beneath him, his inexperience with this particular activity as clear as a Faerghan lake.

Being first didn’t mean anything in this ridiculous world, and yet it still pleased Rufus absurdly much how he got this before Lambert.

_MINE._

Teeth scraped over Rodrigue’s racing pulse, again and again, and Rodrigue’s head lolled back into the fluffed-up pillows, lips parted with noiseless sounds. Rufus’ own pulse accelerated, blood thrumming against his ears as he shoved his fingers deeper into Rodrigue’s warmth, muscles contracting around them, protesting further intrusion.

Rufus had always preferred women over men, really, but there were exceptions to every breakable rule.

It wasn’t his fault his brother didn’t recognize Rodrigue’s feelings for what they were – rawer than those of friendship, more fragile than anything yet immensely enduring despite the contradiction in that statement – and it certainly wasn’t his fault that Rodrigue’s lips and reluctant acceptance both tasted sweeter than any nectar.

Lambert knew how to break weapons; Rufus knew how to break _people_.

The walls of Castle Fhirdiad were grey and thick, but even they couldn’t silence the loud noise that came from the chambers on the other side of the banner-covered wall behind Rufus’ bed. A cracking sound, one that had Rufus nearly laugh out loud upon realizing what it was.

(Bitterly rather than gleefully, but what did that matter?)

“Seems like my dear brother had an accident,” Rufus said, a smile curling along his mouth when Rodrigue’s head tilted away to avoid eye contact. Rodrigue never wore his heart on his sleeve but lying before Rufus like this, even he couldn’t help being vulnerable.

“Oh, forgive me,” Rufus continued, flippant and with the slightest edge to his voice as he pulled his fingers out and watched Rodrigue shudder against his sheets. “I’m getting in the way of your fantasy of him making love to you, aren’t I?”

Rodrigue’s face twisted so plainly and visibly that Rufus laughed this time, a short, gleeful sound that could be mistaken for genuine happiness.

The laugh came with an awful feeling bubbling in his gut, mixing into the pleasure of his arousal as Rufus, after shedding his breeches completely, lubricated himself properly with brisk jerks of his hand.

How he _hated_ Lambert for having the life and friends that should have been his – how he had hated watching Rodrigue and Antoine fall into Lambert’s gravity, effectively ignoring _him_ – how he wanted to tear the things Lambert had into broken, unrecognizable pieces…

Rufus purred deep from his throat as he settled between Rodrigue’s parted thighs, “Don’t you worry, little Fraldarius. I’ll take care of you in my brother’s stead.”

Rodrigue’s eyes shut tighter, the wrinkle between his brows ever present and freed hair spread around his head like a halo, as he gave himself up to him.

Just like that, Rufus had won.

* * *

Rodrigue remained passive through the whole ordeal, eyes shut and hands rigid where they held onto Rufus, but he could not hide his sighs and groans from Rufus’ ears.

It would have been farfetched to imagine Lambert to have heard them, as soft as Rodrigue’s voice was, but even so Rufus couldn’t say he was horribly disappointed. Rodrigue made a good lay regardless of his effort in participation and his pleasure-stricken face was a nice sight to drink in.

With his dark locks of hair, narrow and deep-set eyes, and well-defined face, no one could fault Rufus for being attracted to Rodrigue physically, could they?

No one could fault Rufus for biting Rodrigue’s skin hard enough to raise deep bruises long after they were done with each other or taking his time fucking into the pliant man who kept his eyes closed and praying for a different Blaiddyd in his own mind.

(—Well, they could. Rufus just wouldn’t have minded the judgment.)

Rodrigue came first, with a pitiful and low-pitched whine of Rufus’ name – which pleased Rufus far too much, made him rock himself harder into Rodrigue until his cock too gave the forewarning twitch before spilling inside Rodrigue’s exhausted body.

“Stay the night, won’t you?” Rufus suggested as he brushed his lips generously over Rodrigue’s sweat-dampened cheek, his fingers tangling into the messy waves of unraveled midnight blue hair. “Would hate for you to be lonely.”

Rodrigue sighed deep from his throat but made no move to escape when Rufus pulled him against his naked chest and buried his nose into the thick and wavy hair.

Good enough.

The much too satisfied smile lingered on Rufus’ lips until sleep finally claimed him.

* * *

Rufus had him again in the morning, amid the soaked sheets and abandoned blankets after the breakfast they ate together. The servants knew well that Rufus preferred to eat alone with his companions – whenever he had one – and so they brought two trays of food that morning too.

If they recognized the Fraldarius heir from where he lay among the sheets, they made no comment on it.

Still, Rufus was sure the rumors would spread soon enough, and it had him in a good enough mood to kiss Rodrigue awake for breakfast in bed. It was worth it to feel the pleasant rise of Rodrigue’s lips as they curled into a sleepy smile, to feel Rodrigue’s hand reach out to cup his cheek and then move into his hair (longer than Lambert’s—).

“Lambert,” Rodrigue sighed, still half-asleep, his voice more lovestruck than Rufus had ever heard it.

Rufus’ smile vanished.

“Afraid not, Rod,” he murmured deceptively softly as he dug his fingers into Rodrigue’s already bruised hip. The nickname came out acidic from his tongue. “My apologies.”

Rodrigue stiffened at his touch but yielded under his lips, and while he tried to protest sharing breakfast in bed, he did not leave.

Not even when Rufus went back to mouthing at his neck after they had finished their meals. Not when Rufus spread him open beneath him again in a mockery of the affection he so craved. Not when Rufus fucked him into the mattress and whispered objectively awful things just to get rid of his own nauseous feelings.

 _Mine_ , his thoughts hissed as they had the previous night. _Should have been mine_.

His thoughts only fell silent when he came in Rodrigue once more, his head buried into Rodrigue’s neck and all the more aware of him muttering the correct name this time.

Rufus left him there afterwards to wallow in his thoughts and regrets, knowing well Rodrigue wouldn’t be able to look at Lambert in the face for the remainder of his stay.

The thought eased some of the knots of disgust deep in Rufus’ gut.

* * *

Members of House Fraldarius left Castle Fhirdiad later in the week, and by then Rodrigue had regained the full use of his legs. (The first two days after the wedding… well, Rufus couldn’t say he wasn’t proud of his handiwork.)

As Rufus had suspected, Rodrigue hadn’t been _quite_ able to look at Lambert in the eye after their night together, and Lambert’s ensuing confusion for it was, frankly put, amusing as hell. Sadly, though, the crown prince was more concerned about his new wife than his lifelong friend, so he didn’t seem to deem it worth to delve into the problem too deeply.

Shame. Rufus would have loved to watch _that_ play out.

Alas, Rodrigue and his family left before it had the chance to.

Oh, well. They had plenty of life left in them. Much room for many more mistakes Rufus could rub in on Lambert’s face.

He wasn’t always the most patient of men, but for this he could manage.

* * *

Eight months later, Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius married at the age of 20 while Rufus was officially named the Grand Duke of Itha and given the full use of the privileges and duties that came with the title.

Lambert’s coronation was fast approaching, too.

And this time Rodrigue only shook his head at him when he tried to coax him away from his own wedding celebrations.

“Your Highness,” Rodrigue said firmly, with clear eyes and pursed lips, head bowing lightly to show respect, “I will not disrespect my wedding vows. You must understand this.”

Just like that, it seemed like Rufus’ attempts at cracking Rodrigue (and Lambert, by association) had come to a halt.

Fortunately – unfortunately? – life was not on Rodrigue’s side on this.

* * *

(But long before that – not even a year after the soon-to-be Duke’s wedding – the news of the newest Fraldarius lady expecting a child arrived. Rufus knew this, as he was visiting Fhirdiad when Lambert got the letter. The blatant joy on his face had been _unbearable_ , as was the knowledge that there would be no such letter waiting for Rufus in Itha.

The child would be named Glenn Victor Fraldarius, and he would prove to be quite something.)

* * *

So, Lambert was crowned. The old King and Queen Consort passed, neither of whose funerals Rufus bothered to attend. Years passed, and Rufus only occasionally met the new Duke Fraldarius in private – and none of those times ended with them falling into Rufus’ old bed at Castle Fhirdiad.

Lambert had his first (and what would his only) child at the ripe age 25, about a month after his own birthday. Two months after, Duke Fraldarius’ second child followed, almost perfectly mimicking their fathers save for the order and the longer period of time between their births. The children were named Dimitri Alexandre and Felix Hugo, and they too would prove to be quite something later in life.

The blissful time would not last forever, as soon after the births of those two children a horrible plague made itself known around the Kingdom.

That was the beginning, but in hindsight, only the ending mattered to Rufus, for it brought Rodrigue back to his feet, miserable as he’d ever been.

* * *

The Queen of Faerghus took ill around the time Rufus returned for the bimonthly visit from Itha – why he did so, he knew not, considering he and Lambert had nothing to talk about with one another – and so Rufus was around to see his little brother’s usually calm and charming expression twist into worry and fear.

A part of him felt – bad, seeing Lambert like that.

A very small part, but it existed.

Not that it drove him to console his little brother. Goddess, no – it was only fair, Rufus told himself, that Lambert’s most precious thing should be ripped away from him in a calamity he hadn’t been ready to face. Just like Lambert had taken everything from _him_.

A little under a week after the Queen Consort had begun showing symptoms typical of the plague, Duke Fraldarius arrived in Fhirdiad with very little fanfare. Rufus didn’t even know he had arrived until it was far too late.

He only found out about his presence at the castle hours after the well-beloved queen’s passing, when the Duke himself appeared at the door to his chambers dressed in clean and pristine clothing but looking otherwise wretched.

Rufus already knew of her passing, so the reason behind Rodrigue’s miserable bearing didn’t need questioning.

Even so, Rufus said, delicate eyebrows raised, “My, I didn’t expect to find you here, Duke Fraldarius.”

Rodrigue simply looked at him, eyes narrow but unfocused, face taut with misery. Hair up in that simple ponytail he always pulled it into whenever he acted as a healer, though some strands escaped to rest against his cheekbones. Clothes were the most unaffected part of him, though his usual white gloves were gone.

“Rufus,” Rodrigue said, even quieter than normally, and his face twisted as his voice cracked and strained over Rufus’ name. “Please don’t play the fool with me.”

“I am not playing,” Rufus said, but didn’t stop himself from smiling coyly as he stepped back to let the Fraldarius in. Rodrigue entered without hesitation, and the door shut behind him. Rufus’ smile widened. “I _truly_ have no idea what you are here for. Should you not be with my dear brother as he mourns?”

Rodrigue’s gaze flickered downward, somehow making the strained lines beneath his eyes more pronounced. “His Majesty,” he said stiffly as he clenched his ungloved fingers, “is resting at the moment.”

Rufus supposed he ought to be sympathetic to his brother’s plight, but truly, it was exhausting to care for longer than a few seconds at a time.

“And here you are,” Rufus said, reaching out to brush a straying strand of hair from Rodrigue’s face, “with me.”

The backs of his fingers moved to stroke Rodrigue’s cheek, and Rodrigue’s eyelashes fluttered at the touch.

“Here I am,” Rodrigue agreed. Quiet, subdued, _exhausted_. His half-lidded eyes stared up at Rufus, a dim gleam in the stormy grey-blue irises. Rodrigue’s hand reached out in turn – to grip Rufus’ elbow, fingers trembling against the wool of the tunic. His eyebrows knitted together with emotion, eyes haunted as he looked at Rufus not quite pleadingly but close enough to it to make Rufus’ stomach roll with want.

Every healer at Castle Fhirdiad had the same haunted look in their eyes as Rodrigue did now, but their despair was quieter, its intensity dulled from experience and previous calamities from long before.

Rodrigue, at 26, hadn’t had the same experiences. Bandits and combat-healing aside, he hadn’t experienced _tragedy_ before now – and it was written over his features, in the nearly broken but still proud stance he held himself together with.

If Rufus had been a better, kinder man, he would have resisted the firm touch of Rodrigue’s lips against his own – would have leaned back and told him to go to sleep, for those bags beneath his eyes were an atrocious sign of several nights worth of serious sleep debt. But Rufus was not that good a man, and some part of him was still the same bitter boy that had been pushed aside, his hurt invisible to everyone when Lambert got everything.

He had always wanted someone to be hurting with him, alongside him, even if he were the one doing the hurting—

He wanted Rodrigue to hurt—

—and so, instead of pushing him away, Rufus welcomed the kiss in all its barely contained neediness, with his hand curled possessively over Rodrigue’s pale, chilled cheek.

_Still mine._

* * *

They ended up stumbling to the bed, with Rodrigue insistently pushing them toward it, though his movements were awkward, erratic.

“Why,” Rufus crooned as he fell onto his own bed, Rodrigue sitting on his thighs and staring down unseeingly with more strands of hair framing his face as they escaped from the ponytail. Rufus’ mouth quirked upwards. Poor thing looked _wretched_ above him. “You are being quite forceful today, little Fraldarius. I suppose your lady Duchess has taught you how to take action over the years?”

Rodrigue flinched so strongly one would have thought he had been struck across the face.

“Have the wedding vows grown too heavy to hold?” Rufus continued, grabbing hold of Rodrigue’s elbow before Rodrigue could push himself away. “You are unusually forthcoming. She doesn’t satisfy you well enough?”

Through the layer of exhausted misery, Rodrigue’s expression shifted, lips curling to bare his teeth at Rufus as the rest of his face contorted in reactionary rage.

“Don’t say such things about her,” Rodrigue said, voice quiet and startlingly even despite how his hand shook where it clutched Rufus’ tunic and how his eyebrows knitted together. When he spoke again, his lips quivered and usually calm eyes watered. “It is unkind to… speak ill of the dead.”

If Rufus hadn’t been hard before… well, he wouldn’t have been able to deny that he was now. Was it incredibly inappropriate and messed up to get off on someone else’s misery? Kind of. More than just a little. But it was fair that someone else should be miserable too when Rufus had been for a long time.

“Feel free to shut me up,” Rufus said unkindly, dragging his hand up to the back of Rodrigue’s neck. There, his uncut nails dug into sensitive skin, and Rufus’ lips rose into a smile better suited for an Adrestian viper. “You know how to, little Fraldarius.”

Rodrigue’s anger tasted sweet when he pushed himself down on Rufus’ lips and body, his hands shaking when they clawed at Rufus’ tunic; his hips thrust down, endearingly clumsy and frustratingly gentle even amid Rodrigue’s low-simmering irritation.

Which one bit the other lips first didn’t matter – it happened, and one thing led to another. Rufus only knew that one moment he only tasted the warmth of Rodrigue’s unusually willful lips and the next moment he had the taste of iron in his mouth and the good Lord Fraldarius himself beneath him.

When he opened his eyes, Rufus caught the red that ran along Rodrigue’s mouth and down to his chin and the sounds of Rodrigue heaving for breath.

The watery look in his eyes stayed as he they peered back at Rufus, wide and unfocused.

Rufus’ cock stiffened further, and a realization dawned on him.

“He doesn’t know, does he?” he said, quiet and, this time, without a smile. Rodrigue’s fingers curled tight in the blond locks that had been tugged free from their constraint. The dim look on his face said more than enough, but Rufus pressed on, “You didn’t tell Lambert your wife died.”

Rodrigue’s nails dug into Rufus’ scalp without any real force behind them. His bloodstained lips pressed together briefly, and Rufus’ eyes followed the outline of Rodrigue’s tongue as it licked off some of the crimson before attempting to speak.

“How could I, when Lambert needs me to be strong?” Rodrigue said, voice crackling and his eyes watering further without letting any tears slip. Fingers held Rufus’ hair tighter in their grasp. “There is no misery I won’t bear for my king.”

And that was the point, wasn’t it?

Lambert was his king before he was a friend, now, and kings demanded for utmost loyalty from their subjects. No Fraldarius would ever burden a Blaiddyd king with their own miseries, their own worries regarding themselves.

A well-trained pet, this one. If Rufus were the king, what would he—

But it wasn’t just about the duty of his station, was it? Rodrigue cared, painfully much, always had ever since the day he met Lambert, when Rufus had been eight and bored of watching his little four-year-old brother making a new friend right in front of him.

Sacrificing his own feelings for a friend and a king – it was _noble_. The kind of thing wandering bards sang about when they recited stories about Loog and Kyphon’s legendary friendship and how they were soul-bound brothers closer than married couples.

But that kind of nobility left room for much uglier sides in a person. The grief, the ache, the longing – what society described as _selfish_ and _futile_.

All the ugliest things in Rodrigue had surfaced now, and Rufus found himself relishing it and the trail of blood that reached that oh so pretty nose.

It was funny, he thought as Rodrigue’s hands pulled him down to his mouth again, how he got to see this, instead of Lambert.

He might have gotten the best parts of Rodrigue, but Rufus got the raw pain, which was probably the most honest part of any man.

What a strange thing life was.

Rufus smiled and pressed down on the man trembling beneath him against the comfortable bedding that yet paled in comparison to the comforts Lambert’s bed most likely offered.

If there was anything he was good at – anything he truly excelled at – it was making Rodrigue fall apart at the seams and force the ugly need right out of him.

Lambert would never.

* * *

In such a wretched state, Rodrigue had much less shame than he usually did – much less pride and self-respect. Good riddance! All those things only ever got in the way of satisfaction and fun. He could maintain his dutiful persona outside well enough, but Rufus would not let him play that card there in the privacy of his chambers.

Older servants still occasionally whispered of the last time they’d been together, and Rufus intended to give them more to talk about. It was the only entertainment they had in the castle. With Rufus so often away in Itha, they must have been bored into dullness working for the king and his merry band of nobles (to which Rufus was included).

Though, for most part, it was entertainment for himself in absence of a real, concrete way of upstaging the self-important king of Faerghus. Battle prowess mattered little in the face of the Minor Crest of Blaiddyd, and Rufus didn’t find much joy in fighting like a goddess-blessed brute.

His joy came from making people breathe his name like a prayer, a curse, or both. In Rodrigue’s case, it was definitely both. His shallow exhales of breath, as Rufus pushed into him, were accompanied with gritting teeth, fluttering and watery eyelashes, and hair that had come undone from its tail some time ago. Rufus’ eyes stayed on the stains of blood on Rodrigue’s lips and chin and nose – when his nose had begun bleeding, he was not entirely sure, but they _had_ been rough in their undressing and foreplay.

He had seen the sight before. He had been to plenty of battles with his brother and his little Fraldarius pet. Rodrigue’s pale skin made bruises manifest easily, made crimson shine against it like the ebony bark of southern trees against snow.

When he had buried himself as deep as he could, Rufus could not help but whisper against Rodrigue’s crimsoned cheek, “Do you imagine this is how it’d feel with him?”

His heart burned from the question, familiar flames of anger licking at his ribs, but he remained still as Rodrigue’s fingers undid Rufus’ hair from its loose ponytail, letting the ribbon fall somewhere in the sheets beneath them. Bare fingers, a healer’s fingers calloused from wielding a spear, caressed through the sweaty locks before they settled on Rufus’ cheeks and pushed until Rufus’ eyes, which were always lighter grey rather than blue, met Rodrigue’s darker, half-lidded gaze.

“I could never mistake you for him,” Rodrigue said in his usual pleasant and even voice, despite how his eyes watered and how difficult it must have been to hold himself back now. The shadows beneath his eyes revealed entirely too much of whether the words meant an insult or a compliment, the delirium on that face on a similar scale of the feverish feeling burning in Rufus—

 _I could never mistake you for him_ , Rodrigue’s lips said, and his eyes mocked him with their sadness, with their exhausted _acceptance_ that the second-best was all he could get.

And while Rufus had sold himself as such – second-best, the first prince of Faerghus that lost the title to his Crested brat of a brother blessed not only with the Crest but enough charm to make people like Rodrigue fall blindly in love with him – seeing it in another person’s gaze relit an old, violent feeling he had never been able to work out of his system.

His hand, smaller than Lambert’s and weaker by nature’s wicked choices, left Rodrigue’s thigh to close around his neck, finger pads meeting a frantic pulse.

Rodrigue’s hands cupping his cheeks didn’t withdraw; his eyebrows only wrinkled together in a wretched mockery of sympathy.

Rufus’ fingers itched so _badly_ – but didn’t press down.

“I am not him,” Rufus said. If his voice cracked, he himself didn’t hear it over the rush of blood in his ears. The surge of violence in his veins brought a bad taste to his mouth, and he didn’t rein it in.

“I am well aware,” Rodrigue said, voice cracking. The hands on Rufus’ cheeks trembled, bare skin on skin – an unintended act of intimacy Rodrigue afforded him, until they guided Rufus’ face down and pulled lips against lips.

The taste of iron filled his mouth, and the familiarity of it had Rufus’ shoulders sink, his hand around Rodrigue’s neck cease its quivering.

When he pulled back, calm and back in control of himself once more, Rufus tightened his hold around that neck, egged on by the whisper of agreement Rodrigue had given just then. Not tight enough yet to call it a chokehold, but he was getting close to one.

If Lambert were the one doing it, he’d crush a windpipe, most likely. He had never quite gotten rid of his habit of snapping things in half – Rufus’ lips rose into a reluctant half-smile at the memories that came with the thought.

Teaching Lambert to write had taken the tutors _ages_ , and Rufus had made plenty of fun of his little brother for that. Not cruelly, though; only in childish jest that had yet to have the edge of anger that lingered in every conversation between them now.

“I am not Lambert,” Rufus said, fingers curling and Rodrigue’s eyelids lowering in response. “But I am the only Blaiddyd you’ll ever have in your bed.”

Rodrigue’s eyes now fully closed, a droplet of a tear running right under a closed eyelid. Rufus’ gaze followed it, and his ears listened to the other’s shallow but even breath.

 _You could have been mine_ , Rufus’ thoughts whispered to him once more. They never stopped, these ugly, slithering thoughts that ruined every memory of light in his life. Rufus’ hand tightened around Rodrigue’s neck. _You should have been mine._

Rodrigue’s hand moved from Rufus’ cheek into his hair, blond and tousled and free and so similar to his little brother’s.

His fingers pressed into the sides Rodrigue’s neck. A loud, wheezing sound followed, and the body beneath Rufus’ spasmed as Rufus choked its owner with a hand that was quite capable of murder should he have a wish for it.

As it was, though, Rufus didn’t wish that. Only the selfish pleasure that came from watching Rodrigue struggle for air beneath a hand that he somehow trusted despite everything he had already gone through with Rufus.

He’d fuck and choke him as he pleased, give Rodrigue what he wanted, and keep what Lambert would never have to himself.

It was only right, wasn’t it?

Justice for the life that he should have had.

* * *

As soon as they were done, Rodrigue fell deep into slumber, as though he had been knocked out. Rufus would have felt smug if it weren’t for how utterly exhausted Rodrigue had already been when he had come to him – oh, scratch that, he _definitely_ felt smug about it regardless as he ran his fingers through the sweat-soaked hair of wavy midnight.

“You don’t trust yourself or your medical concoctions to sleep,” Rufus whispered into Rodrigue’s hair, “but you certainly trust my cock for it.”

Which was perfectly fine.

Rufus dreamed of pleasant things that night, as he often did after a good lay.

* * *

The morning came, and with it all the bruises and aches from the previous night. Rodrigue looked no less miserable then the night before, but perhaps the bruises on his neck and the dried blood on his face merely gave that impression.

Rodrigue slept long into the morning. Long enough for Rufus to receive the trays of food and drink and for him to eat his own breakfast in bed while silently observing the way winter sun caressed Rodrigue’s dark curls of hair.

When Rodrigue finally stirred from his sleep, his breakfast had long since gone cold. It was nearly time for lunch, and the sun was at its highest.

As one might have expected, Rodrigue did not wish to stay for another lay. Rufus emphatically reminded him that his bed certainly was free for Rodrigue for the nights to come, should the Duke wish for it.

He might have been smiling a little too smugly as Rodrigue seemed to experience physical pain just from looking at him. He finished washing his face at the basin of water servants had brought at Rufus’ request, and carefully avoided looking at Rufus from there on as he gathered himself.

No matter, Rufus thought as he watched the Fraldarius limp away, possibly off to one of the many castle infirmaries before going to look for their mourning king. Or perhaps a full bath. Rufus was in need of one, too.

Rodrigue would come back. He always had so far, whenever he didn’t have a morality-based excuse.

* * *

And he did – that night, and the one after, always looking close to tears and yet refusing to shed any. Still gloveless and vulnerable, no matter how he tried to be strong in the daylight.

“I could never mistake you for him,” Rodrigue had said, and the words burned through Rufus as he claimed Rodrigue’s mouth and body, nails digging into skin that hadn’t yet gotten rid of previous bruises that ran purple against pale complexion. Duchess Fraldarius had obviously trained him well in bedroom, for Rufus could not remember Rodrigue being quite so adept at adapting to his whims previously.

The frequency of his visits meant his mobility during daytime wasn’t so great, however, and Rufus was amused to one day see Rodrigue walk with Lambert while supporting himself with a wooden cane. Must have been a quick commission, as it wasn’t quite as fancy as Rufus himself would have ordered.

Rufus also overheard their conversation:

“My friend,” said Lambert, sounding not quite so somber as he had in the previous days, “there may be more urgent matters at hand, but I urge you to tell me what could have happened to render you in such a state that you need a cane.”

Rodrigue’s short, dry laughter. Rufus didn’t hear the sound often, so it nearly had him halt his steps. “Perhaps the pains of hurrying here on horseback have finally caught up to me, Your Majesty. I am not eighteen anymore, as you know.”

Lambert’s laughter was rambunctious, more like his usual self. “Rodrigue, we are not even in our thirties yet.”

“Old age, it comes fast,” Rodrigue said with the kind of a sigh that was clearly made in jest. Rufus bit back a snort himself. “In a month, perhaps you will understand.”

“Don’t let my brother hear you say so,” Lambert snickered, sounding _much_ more like his usual self. “Or any of the Gautier siblings.”

Rufus didn’t hear any of the following conversation, as he quickly withdrew back to the castle’s main library. Any conversation regarding the Gautier family would only ruin his somewhat good mood, after all.

* * *

Life went on, and Rodrigue returned to Fraldarius after a while. Rufus went back to Itha, to the small fortress castle that was even sturdier than Castle Fhirdiad. Rufus wrote to him sometimes; Rodrigue replied more often than he used to, though with an air of formality that made Rufus roll his eyes as he read the letters.

Outside of bed, Rodrigue refused to acknowledge the nature of their relationship – which was fine, Rufus had quite a bit of fun watching and reading Rodrigue dodge every comment Rufus made regarding it.

Mere months later, two significant things occurred that gathered the attention of those closest to the royal court. First, the plague had been driven off Kingdom lands by the hands of a single holy woman, who rumors said had studied and done research in the warmer imperial lands. Cornelia the Miracle Maker, people called her. Rufus distinctly recalled hearing her name mentioned before, though only in passing.

That wasn’t the important part.

Lambert was marrying again and had seen it fit to tell his older brother about it. _This is not a public affair, however,_ Lambert emphasized in his letter. _She refuses the duties of a consort queen. As it is her wish, I am obligated to grant her that – and I wish for you and others to keep her a secret as well, brother._

And people called Rufus the womanizer.

He had yet to marry and waste the crown’s finances for weddings, at least.

Rufus would make the trip to Fhirdiad for the ceremony, if just to see Rodrigue endure the task of attendance and possibly to offer some comfort afterwards.

(Lambert made this so, so easy – and Rodrigue’s life so much more difficult.)

* * *

Lady Anselma (Patricia now, she insisted) of House Arundel was a lady in every sense of the word, and quite different from Lambert’s arranged (but truly loved) first wife.

She seemed to rather dislike interacting with others, and her brows wrinkled ever so slightly as Rufus offered a kiss to her hand. Still, she played her role of the content bride quite well: attaching herself to Lambert’s arm at any chance she got, her violet eyes slightly less glacial when they gazed at Lambert.

She’d fit in Faerghus well, Rufus decided upon mulling these observations over and tossed her out of his mind.

The celebrations were held in the smallest ballroom of the castle’s western wing, and the wedding had taken place in the small chapel on the castle grounds. It hadn’t been officiated by the Archbishop as Lambert’s first wedding had. Rufus was thankful for that: weddings were an awful waste of time and the syrupy happiness too sweet to his taste and while the Archbishop was pretty to look at, she really wasn’t Rufus’ type.

Still, he couldn’t say he minded the reception itself as he got to mingle with people that were no longer controlled by the ghost of the previous king. Plague had done away with the people of the old very quickly, men and women alike.

(Thinking about it, Rufus was lucky Rodrigue hadn’t caught it and transferred the damn thing to him, too. Oh, the things he was willing to overlook for a good fuck.)

Mostly, he’d been looking forward to finding out how Rodrigue was handling himself. To his surprise and disappointment, it seemed that Duke Fraldarius was doing quite well. His hair had grown since the last time Rufus had seen him, though as it was tied into a ponytail it was difficult to say how much. His dark clothes were contrasted by the teal cloak put on his shoulders, but the attire hardly compared to the gentle smile Rufus caught sight of as Rodrigue and his dance partner swept by him.

His partner’s hair glowed far more orange than it actually was beneath the ballroom chandeliers, and her gaze remained firmly on Rodrigue through the dance, a matching smile on her pretty mouth.

Cornelia, the newcomer to the court. Rufus hadn’t actually been introduced to her yet, so recent was her rise into nobility, but he had heard plenty of stories from merchants and visiting nobles. She was quite gorgeous, well-endowed body and smart eyes, but Rufus suspected that wasn’t what had Rodrigue smiling like he was genuinely content.

How irritating. Rufus had rarely had competition when it came to getting Rodrigue’s attention, asides from his brother and Antoine. And the late Duchess Fraldarius. Who had once held him at a knife-point and firmly requested that her husband be left alone. A fierce woman, that one.

Rodrigue was almost reluctant to release Cornelia as the music came to a slight pause before another old Faerghan folk song rose in its wake. He managed to after catching Rufus’ stare, his mouth falling into a thin line as he turned to bid Cornelia farewell for the moment.

Rufus gave an exaggerated bow when Rodrigue approached. “Wonderful to see you made it here for the occasion, Duke Fraldarius.”

“I should be the one saying that to you, Your Highness,” Rodrigue said, lips rising into the faintest smile. Whether it was genuine or not – _that_ was hard to tell, even if Rufus prided himself on his ability to read people. For better or for worse, Rodrigue had a good poker face when it came to politics. Only when it came to his own personal life did the mask falter. “His Majesty was quite surprised as well.”

“Why, I couldn’t simply let a childhood friend of mine wallow in misery while my brother gets to be happy and ignorant,” Rufus responded and took a long sip from a goblet he had grabbed from a dinner table in the adjacent room. There was another childhood friend in the room, with fiery red hair and the beginnings of an impressive beard, but thinking of him was as futile as contemplating the dead – which was to say, not worth the effort and heartache.

Rufus focused on the study of Rodrigue’s face, where a few faint lines of facial hair had begun to show themselves but nothing immensely impressive yet.

To Rodrigue’s credit, Rufus could not find a single twitch of annoyance on that face at his remark. If anything, the slight smile only turned more easily visible. His eyes remained exhausted, but they held a fire of life they hadn’t the last time Rufus had seen him.

“Such kind words, Your Highness,” Rodrigue said. “I am almost led to believe you are genuinely concerned for me.”

“Have I given you reason to doubt my sincerity?” Rufus almost laughed at the way Rodrigue dubiously lifted an eyebrow at his words. The bags beneath his eyes betrayed his many nights of insomnia, and Rufus chuckled both at them and the delicate lift of the eyebrow. “All right, all right, I have not been the most well-behaved pet _His Majesty_ would wish for, I’ll admit.”

Rodrigue’s sigh drowned beneath the music, and his gaze trailed off to the king that still remained on the dancefloor with his new wife. His eyes narrowed, eyebrows knitting further in contemplation, before he said, “His Majesty has never viewed you as lowly as you view yourself, Your Highness.”

 _I could never mistake you for him_ rang through Rufus’ mind again, and his fingers dig into the cold metal of the goblet with the urge to toss its contents away.

 _Liar,_ Rufus thought. There had never been a moment after Lambert’s birth when people hadn’t tried to emulate Lambert through him or seen him as lesser than his brother. Lambert included, no matter how his concerned looks might suggest otherwise.

It was all he had amounted to. A Crestless prince with a similar enough face to be mistaken for the crown prince if it weren’t for the hair held on his shoulder in a loose ponytail and their mother’s grey eyes. (And a skewed nose, which was the doing of a seventeen-year-old Rodrigue. A fun story to share with the nobles that were overly impressed with Duke Fraldarius’ pleasant demeanor – though, usually, they never quite bought into the “wolf in sheep’s clothing” image of him until after they shared a council table with him.)

“I doubt you know my brother’s thoughts as well as you think,” Rufus said. Then, more pleasantly, he continued, “How fare you? I remember the last time this kind of an event took place, you were quite beside yourself.”

“In these dark times,” Rodrigue said, eyes half-shut, “I am only glad to see him smile again so freely. Regardless of what I may think of the—affair itself.”

A stray curl of hair caressed Rodrigue’s cheek, fallen from the intricate high ponytail Rodrigue had tied his hair into, and Rufus reached to tuck it behind Rodrigue’s ear. Casual, as one might do with a friend – though considering the rumors going around the castle about them, the gesture would not be interpreted as such.

Rodrigue looked at him disapprovingly but didn’t say anything as Rufus’ hand withdrew.

“In these dark times,” Rufus said, quietly, handing a passing servant his goblet, “there’s only one place one can find warmth in, huh?”

“Your—Rufus,” Rodrigue said, grimacing as he shifted into more familiar territory. He glanced around them, smiled faintly and politely at anyone that passed by, before sighing and looking at Rufus once more in the eye. “That appears to be your solution to everything, doesn’t it?”

“You did not complain the last time,” Rufus said, tipping his head lower toward Rodrigue’s face. smiling all the while. “I believe you rather begged for—”

“A Fraldarius does not beg,” Rodrigue interjected, trying so very hard for a firm tone but not quite managing, “a Fraldarius merely _advises_.” His eyes flickered towards the merry married couple, eyebrows furrowed. “Whether that advice is listened to is a different matter.”

“Your father’s saying, I take it.”

Rodrigue’s smile melted into a more genuine one, though the mention of his father still seemed to make his shoulders slump. “House Fraldarius is more than my father, Rufus.”

“Which is why I can say, with certainty, that you have begged before,” Rufus said, snorting, “little Fraldarius.”

Over the music and the sounds of footsteps sweeping over the wide stone floor, Lambert’s laughter rang, infectious and more genuine than it had been the last time Rufus had had the misfortune of enduring him. Rodrigue’s eyes again flicked towards the sound, but Rufus’ hand rising to his cheek stopped him.

“Shall we go?” he asked, giving a charming smile that had never impressed Rodrigue as much as it did some other nobles. “The night is young, and I so enjoy your company, Rodrigue.”

Should Lambert look in their direction right then, perhaps—

Rodrigue gently brought Rufus’ hand down with his own, but instead of chastising him, he only sighed. “I am aware I am not the only person you entertain in your chambers,” he said. “Am I truly that high on the list, or are you simply bored?”

“Such skepticism,” Rufus said as he began leading them out of the ballroom. Rodrigue let him, though Rufus caught the look Rodrigue cast at the newlyweds once more. Pointedly, Rufus pressed his hand to the small of the other’s back, smiling when he saw a young servant girl’s eyes widen at the sight of them. After passing her, he continued, “I would be glad to show where you are on that list, if you like.”

“I am certain you would.” Despite his seemingly cold and stiff words, a flush rose to Rodrigue’s cheeks, faint but a satisfying sight all the same.

It reminded Rufus of their Academy months, of the first times he’d gotten a taste of those now often down-curled lips.

And just as he had back then too, Rodrigue followed him, still trusting him, perhaps still exhausted from the months of grief that had followed the queen consort’s (and his own wife’s) death.

Either way, Rufus wasn’t about to complain. Loyalty and trust were, after all, so easy to exploit.

* * *

(If he caught sight of Lambert’s head turned towards them just as he’d been leading Rodrigue out of the room, well, Rufus would keep that to himself.)

* * *

It wasn’t nearly as violent as it had been the last couple times they shared the bed, but it was pleasant regardless. Closer to Rufus’ usual affairs. Whatever had happened since the last time they saw each other – the quickly blossomed friendship with the new lady in the court? time to grieve? the management of Fraldarius dukedom? his children, of whom Rufus has only seen Glenn briefly? – had obviously helped steady Rodrigue and given him some semblance of a peace of mind.

Rodrigue still closed his eyes and kept them shut through it all, now that he was more himself than all those months ago they last had had each other, but he wasn’t so passive as he had been on Lambert’s first wedding night.

Resigned acceptance that this was all he could ever have, perhaps. With a touch less despair than before.

Good.

Rufus devoured him that night, and while it wasn’t the same kind of satisfying as it had been before, Rufus still found himself smiling in satisfaction by the end of it as he nuzzled his nose into Rodrigue’s hair and fell asleep holding his body close.

He dreamed of the past that night, an unusual event for him.

Of childhood and of lost happiness, of red hair and crooked smiles, of dark hair bumping against blond and laughter so clear and shameless it would have melted the coldest of hearts.

When morning came, he had almost entirely forgotten about the dreams. What remained, in the back of his mind, was the sight of a much younger Lambert’s smile, innocent and carefree, as he was making a request of his older brother. What that request was, well, _that_ Rufus couldn’t quite grasp.

Not that it mattered.

To distract himself, Rufus burrowed his nose deeper into Rodrigue’s hair and exhaled slowly and deeply, hands clutching onto the one thing he could keep to himself for the time being.

At least Lambert would never take this away from him, for he was as blind as a bat to Rodrigue’s affections.

The thought was comforting.

* * *

As soon as Rodrigue returned to Fraldarius after a few more days but before Rufus began even thinking of returning to Itha, Lambert pulled him aside between his own kingly (and, ugh, fatherly) duties and took him to the parlor nearest to the council room.

Rufus had some inkling as to what his brother wished to discuss even before he opened his mouth.

To Lambert’s credit, his voice was even and devoid of any audible concern when he said, “I was wondering about your intentions regarding Rodrigue, Rufus.”

“Straight to the point as ever, huh, little brother? And here I thought you would have offered me something to drink before interrogation.” Rufus got comfortable on the sofa he occupied, lifting an eye at Lambert who faced him across the small table between them. “It took you a while. I was so sure you’d have heard the servants whispering way earlier than this.”

Lambert’s eyes narrowed. “You know well I do not care for gossip.” A pause. Lambert’s fingers entwined, palms pressed together. Anxiety? Worry? “This has been going on for a while?”

“For someone recently married, you are worrying an awful lot about irrelevant things,” Rufus said, leaning further back against the fur-cushioned sofa.

Lambert’s eyebrows furrowed further, but not out of anger. His temper was slow to flare up, despite his tendency for breaking things. His hands stayed entwined against his knees. “Irrelevant or not… even so, I worry for him,” Lambert said and, after a brief pause, continued, “as I do for you, brother.”

“For me?” Rufus scoffed. “Your sense of humor has become quite twisted.”

“You have never settled down for anyone,” Lambert said, infuriatingly calmly. “While that may be good for you, Rodrigue is not made the same way. You know this as well as I do, don’t you?”

Oh, he did, but that was the whole point of it.

“His wife’s death is still heavy on him,” Lambert continued, and this time his face twisted with a grief not his own. “I would prefer if you didn’t do anything unnecessary when he’s—”

“Unnecessary?” Rufus interjected with a harsher than intended laugh. “Don’t kid yourself! You make it sound as though I’m forcing myself on him. He’s always been more than capable of making his own choices, though I’m sure you’d just _love_ if he thought of no one but you…”

Because Rodrigue truly did think of no one but Lambert in nearly every choice he made, but like hell was Rufus going to say that to Lambert’s face.

Not when it looked so good, twisted with subtle hurt like that.

“You weren’t the one comforting him for her passing, in the first place,” Rufus continued, with some anger now, though self-satisfaction also laced into his voice as more words ran from his mouth. “By the goddess, you didn’t even _know_ she was dead when he came to help _your_ sickly beloved. You don’t know nearly as much about him as you think you do, dear brother.”

A horrible sound of a bone fracturing echoed off the parlor’s stone walls. Rufus flinched despite himself, his eyes dropping to Lambert’s hands where one held another as though the king had been about to crack his knuckles – or had already done so but ended up with a finger bone twisted off its position.

Rufus grimaced, but Lambert didn’t seem to pay attention to or even feel the pain. The pained look on his face was from a different cause.

“I know well Rodrigue kept it a secret from me initially,” Lambert said, eyes clouded and dim and voice distant, “even if he wishes I didn’t. But I will not begrudge him for it. He did it out of consideration for me, misplaced as the sentiment may be.”

“How noble of you,” Rufus sneered.

“If he chose to confide in you,” Lambert continued as though Rufus hadn’t said a word, “I have no complaints. In fact, I’m relieved if that is indeed the case. Still, I do not approve of your way of… comforting him. I know him well enough – this kind of an arrangement will not make him happy. Neither will it make _you_ happy, Rufus.”

By the end of his little tirade, Lambert’s gaze had refocused on Rufus’, and in the pale blue eyes shone genuine concern that sickened Rufus.

People had always praised Lambert for how genuine he was, but— _but_ —

_Stop looking at me like that. I know you better._

“What I do in my bed on my own time is my business alone, Lambert,” he said, threading his fingers through the loose ponytail hanging on his shoulder. In his irritation, it came out as _tugging_ , though nowhere near harsh enough to hurt. “If your friend chooses my bed, that also is no concern of yours. Unless you’re actually interested—”

Lambert grimaced, and Rufus cut himself off, feeling rather victorious as his little brother said, “Don’t tarnish the friendship between him and I by suggesting such a thing.”

If only Rodrigue were there right then… but alas, he had gone home, and he would never believe anything Rufus wrote, would he? Entirely too much faith in Lambert and his own chances with him, even as they were closer to their thirties than to the Academy days of the past.

“Why, of course I won’t,” Rufus said, a smile spreading over his lips once more. Like many other rooms in the castle, the parlor held a fireplace and the fire crackled audibly in the background as Rufus continued, “I would never dare assume my little brother would want any of my leftovers.”

Lambert was not, by his nature, a terribly violent man, despite his love of training and his Relic (that really ought to have been Rufus’, if the world were just and righteous). Still, looking at the face he made right then, Rufus was sure he would have leapt at him if he had had less self-control.

“He was your friend once too,” Lambert said dreadfully instead, jaw clenched and nose wrinkled with low-simmering anger and disappointment.

That face really reminded Rufus of their long-dead father.

“ _Was_ ,” Rufus emphasized as he stood up from the sofa and began making his way back to the room’s sole entrance. “Don’t get so hung up on the past, brother. Things change. People change! He, too. He’s much better with his tongue than he used to, you know.”

Whatever Lambert’s response might have been, Rufus was no longer able to hear it as he shut the door behind him quite firmly, only briefly entertaining the thought of fetching a healer for Lambert’s dislocated finger.

Rufus hadn’t felt _this_ good in a while – not without fucking being involved in some way – and so he proceeded to begin making plans for returning to Itha. He had more than achieved what he had come there to do, after all.

* * *

The first time Rodrigue said _no_ , clearly and firmly, was during the Sreng campaign. Odd, because a military campaign like that ought to have left men feeling lonely and needy for physical companionship – Rufus certainly knew he wasn’t spending his nights alone in his tent. Not all of them, at least.

The situation went as followed: it was afternoon, the sun had begun to sink below the horizon, and camp had been set amid snow-covered trees. After getting his own troops settled, Rufus had approached Rodrigue, whose face betrayed his exhaustion and his bloodied gloves and slightly shaking hands revealed he came from the healing tents that had been the first to be set up properly.

Magic demanded much of its user, Rufus mused as he observed those hands, and Rodrigue always pushed past the limit for his king. How horrible and romantic.

Ever vigilant, this right-hand man of the King.

“Any deaths today?” Rufus inquired despite knowing full well they had very few days with zero deaths. Rodrigue started, not quite having noticed his approach in time, but his back bent into a bow commendably fast.

“Your Highness,” he acknowledged before soon rising back to his full height. The bags beneath his eyes were hardly pronounced in the greyness of the diminishing afternoon light, but they were there, as familiar a sight as Rodrigue’s face itself. Sleep was as familiar a friend to a Fraldarius as sun was to northern Faerghus in winter. Rodrigue’s eyes didn’t move away from Rufus as he said, even but weary, “Five today. A dozen injuries treated between each healer.”

Snow crunched around them as soldiers moved about, none aimlessly and each with their own purposes. Rufus didn’t much care about what they did as long as food was served on time and fires kept alive. “Five’s not so bad,” Rufus said, rearranging the furs on his shoulders. “Seems like you’re doing well so far, oh right hand of the King.”

“There’s no need for flattery,” Rodrigue said, his tone flat and dismissive and not quite as respectful as a moment ago. “I am only doing what His Majesty has asked of me.”

Rufus highly doubted Lambert had specifically asked Rodrigue to oversee every little thing that went on in the healing tents on top of his participation at the front lines – but then again, perhaps Lambert had grown more demanding of Rodrigue’s skills as time had gone on. He wouldn’t know the details, being away from court and staying in Itha so often.

Their clipped conversation was cut short when one of the squires from the men Rodrigue oversaw approached, calling out for ‘His Lordship’ with a breathless tone.

“A message for Your Lordship,” the squire announced as he made his way to Rodrigue, offering up a letter that had been closed with the seal of Fraldarius, though it took some squinting to recognize it in the greying afternoon light. Rufus caught sight of it as Rodrigue accepted the envelope warily.

Rodrigue thanked the squire and dismissed him soon after, eyes returning to the envelope. They flicked up to Rufus just as quickly. “Your Highness, would you mind—”

Rufus took the envelope from Rodrigue’s still quivering hand before he could finish the sentence and broke the seal to pull out a single sheet of paper. In the darkening light, he could not tell what had been written on it, and so he handed it over to Rodrigue without taking a single glimpse of it.

As soon as he had handed it over, Rodrigue’s free hand rose, and with the movement the air surrounding it turned lighter and lighter, a glow surrounding Rodrigue’s gloved, upheld hand as he studied the paper. It was a warm, gentle light born from magic – the beginnings of an Aura that was then carefully held back before it became the scorching, blinding force the Srengi were by now much too familiar with.

Rufus remembered faintly stumbling upon Rodrigue showing off his newly discovered magical ability to Lambert. His normally withdrawn and fearful face was aflush with joy and wonder that likewise gleamed in Lambert’s eyes. They had all been young then, ignorant to the ways of the world and the ways of their houses, and Rufus had been mesmerized against his own will.

By the magic, by the uncharacteristically unadulterated joy on Rodrigue’s young face.

Now, there was no such joy on Rodrigue’s (much older and sterner) face, but white magic glowed brilliantly all the same as he read through whatever someone had written on the short letter. A few strands of dark hair slipped down to his cheek from the ponytail, and Rufus fought off the urge to brush them away from the unshaven face. A familiar urge. But this time he did not give in to it.

Rodrigue’s eyes narrowed the further he read, and eventually his shoulders sagged as he folded the piece of paper back up.

“Bad news?” Rufus inquired, curious about the shuttered expression that Rodrigue wore.

For a moment, no sound came from Rodrigue, and the background noise from the camp took over as Rufus waited.

The silence between them broke as Rodrigue sighed and his gloved hand ceased glowing. It no longer trembled so much, either.

“It appears my lord father has passed away,” he said, voice as distant as the expression on his face had been moments ago when Rufus still saw it clearly. When he continued, his voice nearly drowned under all the din around the camp. “The letter is from my mother.”

Rufus had met the man many times through his and Rodrigue’s overlapping childhoods. Not much for small talk, even _less_ equipped for children than Rufus was, but always ready to criticize. Rodrigue had always looked a little miserable around him, no matter how neutral he kept his expression.

(It was why Rufus had thought, _maybe there still is someone that gets me—_ )

“My condolences,” said Rufus quite insincerely. “It must be quite the loss.”

Rodrigue’s sigh came deep from his throat as he leaned over to take the envelope from Rufus’ hands, into which he proceeded to slip the dreary message. His voice remained subdued, but not quite sorrowful, “There are worse ways to go than falling asleep at my mother’s side, as far as I am concerned.”

When Rufus’ father – the former king – had died, he had celebrated it with a one-night stand and a bottle of Gautier’s finest.

(Lambert, ever the prodigal son, had grieved properly. Had tried to reach out to Rufus back then, but…)

Perhaps that was why his mouth went on to say, “Well, we both know what the medicine for dealing with all that nonsense is, Rodrigue.”

Rodrigue merely sighed, and gingerly removed Rufus’ hand from his arm when it landed there. “Not this time, I’m afraid,” he said, his words firm and his gaze hard. Though exhaustion still tainted his tone, there was no room for doubt that he meant what he said – and it quite startled Rufus. “I have learned my lesson, Your Highness.”

“Oh my,” Rufus said. “Here I was offering something to cheer you up a bit, little—”

“Pardon my rudeness, but please, do not call me that.” Snow crunched beneath them as Rodrigue shifted weight between his feet. His eyes remained on Rufus, though how much of Rufus’ expression he saw through the fading daylight was difficult to estimate. Probably almost as much as Rufus saw of his down-curling mouth and furrowed brows. “Neither of us is so little anymore that we have time for playing around as we did in the past.”

“The present time, in particular,” Rodrigue continued with a sigh, “is particularly bad for what you suggest.”

“That has never been an issue for you before,” Rufus said with a raised eyebrow. “Remember the graduation night from the Officers Academ—”

Rodrigue shushed him, though no one was passing by and the soldiers’ tents were far enough from them to give some privacy. “Your Highness, I _beg_ you to not mention that again.” Rodrigue’s gaze faltered, flickered away from him, and the atmosphere between them grew heavier still. “I was – young and foolish, then. I am certain you know this, as well.”

“Speaking like an old man already, are we?” Rufus said with a thin smile. “You’re barely into your thirties, Rodrigue. Live a little, treat your heartache. My brother certainly won’t—”

“His Majesty owes no obligation to me,” Rodrigue interjected, surprisingly forcefully for him and his usually so pleasant and demure demeanor. Perhaps fatherhood and his title _had_ begun to grow a backbone in him, after all. Who’d have thought?

(That wasn’t exactly true. Rodrigue had always had a spine when it came to Lambert and politics. Not so much in his own personal life, though. Well, made things much easier for Rufus. He wasn’t going to complain about convenience.)

“There you go again, denying yourself something good,” Rufus said. “Living like that must be exhausting. And at a time like this, doing so is downright harmful, wouldn’t you say?”

Rodrigue smiled thinly in return. “I have indulged myself enough to know an overabundance of it will not help in the long run. Now, Your Highness, if you’ll allow me… I must prepare for the war council. As must you.”

With a quick but deep bow, Rodrigue was soon off, leaving Rufus to stare dumbly at his retreating back and with a little more than just a touch of confusion.

It wasn’t the first time he had been denied – oh, goddess, he was plenty used to _that_ – but it was the first time Rodrigue had done so, and that made Rufus’ stomach twist into bitter knots.

Like he was losing something he had just gotten a hold of.

* * *

Sreng campaign came and went – the Srengi were driven over the mountains, and Margrave Antoine Ulysse Gautier gained new land for himself. Good for him, Rufus would have said if he hadn’t been actively wishing for the man to fall headfirst into a well.

Not that he was hung up on their shared childhoods, or anything.

Years passed. Lambert’s son grew. Dimitri was his name, and the goddess had deemed him worthy of their house’s Crest. Rufus could not say he cared much for the brat – if anything, the sight of him made Rufus angry, for Dimitri made him think of his own already long-lost childhood which Lambert had overshadowed and pushed aside.

He wasn’t around in court often enough to see the Fraldarius kid that much _but_ he heard plenty about it even in Itha. About the youngest Fraldarius befriending the Blaiddyd heir, how charmingly adorable the friendship was, and how the Crestless big brother Fraldarius watched over them with scarcely a complaint.

There was _something_ familiar about the set-up, but Rufus refused to read too deeply into it.

It didn’t particularly matter. Life went on as usual: even without a Fraldarius to occupy his bed, he rarely slept alone – in Itha, in Fhirdiad, or even in Arianrhod, whenever he got the chance to visit that goddess-damned fortress city.

None of the women or men he bedded turned out to be as significant an influence as the lady he already knew through the royal court but with whom he had never been particularly close.

Until now.

Her name was Cornelia Arnim – and she was the beginning of his untimely end.

* * *

“Tell me,” she asked him one day with a silky voice and a half-lidded stare, “don’t you ever wish for… a permanent solution to all your problems, Your Highness?”

They were alone in one of the castle’s many parlors, drinking wine (this time from Adrestia rather than Gautier), and Rufus was perhaps a little further on the way to tipsiness than she was.

The question made him tilt his head in consideration, his mind conjuring up the usual image of Lambert with the crown sat upon his head, with Rodrigue and Antoine standing dutifully beside him. He finally said, “If there were such a way of dealing with them, I would have tried already, milady.”

Her peach-colored hair appeared orange in the dim light the parlor’s wide and stony fireplace offered, and her green eyes flashed like the flickering flames. It was rather mesmerizing, truly, though Rufus had met prettier women before.

“Why,” Cornelia said, soft and quiet but with enough force to make anyone listen, “you have never tried _my_ ways, Your Highness.”

And Rufus, for better or for worse, lent her his ear.

* * *

The plan wasn’t simple in reality but on paper it was as simple enough: orchestrating the regicide of the King Lambert of Faerghus.

It was a little concerning how little moral issues Rufus saw in that.

His old retainer, should he know what Rufus was going to be taking part in, would surely have a heart attack at the very idea.

Were Rufus a better man, perhaps he wouldn’t have agreed – perhaps he would have gone to his brother, told him the truth of the matter, and then seen to it that Cornelia was removed from the court, if not even the country.

However, Rufus was not that better man – he had never been.

* * *

“It’s unfair how you have been treated,” Cornelia lamented, her hand pressed over his. Her green eyes flickered like wildfire as she continued, “But we can still make things just, my lord.”

* * *

If Rufus could not take away Lambert’s most treasured things (people) for himself, he might as well take his life and throne to compensate, yes?

It was only _fair_.

* * *

Patricia, Lambert’s dear wife, gave up the royal procession’s route for their little Duscur trip, with her violet eyes distant and withdrawn like she wasn’t entirely present in the moment.

Rufus hadn’t been privy to this – he hadn’t been privy to much of the court’s inner goings in a while, now. Not that it mattered much. Any potential court gossip was rendered useless in the face of the satisfaction that Patricia’s betrayal of Lambert brought.

It was _almost_ better than his many nightly adventures.

* * *

“This is going to break the Fraldarius duke’s heart, you know,” Rufus commented on one of their weekly dinners in Itha. “I thought you were on rather friendly terms with him.”

Cornelia smiled at him over the rim of the wine glass held up to her mouth. “I was not aware of such a thing,” she said coolly, and her eyes twinkled with faint amusement. “Are you certain you’re speaking of me, Your Highness?”

It was… disconcerting, to say the least.

Not that Rufus wouldn’t give her points for that cold-hearted shrewdness she showed. That was what made her so attractive, after all.

(If he felt a twinge of something in his heart, it must surely only have been his imagination.)

* * *

What it boiled down to:

On that foggy morning in 1176, Lambert and his wife and child were bidding their farewells to those they would be leaving behind in Fhirdiad while they would go on to Duscur for trade and other negotiations that frankly didn’t interest Rufus in the least. Among those Lambert bid an adieu to was Rufus, of course, though the brief exchange was awkward and fake as hell – two words that described their current relationship well.

It was the last time Rufus would ever speak with his brother, if all things went without a hitch.

Things had better go that way. Rufus had waited for this much longer than he had even realized – since long before Cornelia Arnim ever came his way.

He then watched his brother speak with Rodrigue whose face betrayed his displeasure at whatever Lambert was saying. He had been entirely against the trip, so Rufus had heard, but Lambert’s stubbornness triumphed Rodrigue’s. Thankfully, Rufus mused. Who knew when another chance like this would present itself?

The courtyard was bustling with life, with servants packing up the royal carriages and knights running about to and from between the stables, barracks, and the yard. The only ones _not_ busy with something were the royals themselves, as well as Cornelia, who Rufus saw holding Lady Patricia’s hands and whispering something to her.

Dimitri, Rufus’ nephew who Rufus spent much time ignoring, in the meantime busied himself with chattering cheerfully with the youngest Fraldarius child. Felix, Rufus thought was his name, had the most impressive pout as they conversed. Clearly dissatisfied with Lambert’s very sudden decision of taking his friend along for the ride.

Rufus wouldn’t miss Dimitri and his doe-eyed face, either. Without him in the picture, getting what should have been his to begin with would be _much_ easier.

Curse Faerghus and her reverence for the Crest of Blaiddyd, the ultimate symbol of power and strength.

Soon came the time for the royals and their accompanying knights – the oldest of Rodrigue’s two children amongst them – to depart, and so the courtyard became deafening with sound as the gathered nobles and others wished their king safe travels.

From one of the carriage windows, out reached an arm in a half of a wave before it retreated back into the safety and warmth of the carriage.

And so they left. Lady Patricia’s carriage was the last of them all to take off, as Cornelia had taken her sweet time with the forlorn queen consort, but soon it too disappeared out of the wide and sturdy castle gates.

One more carriage remained in the courtyard, a touch less magnificent than the royal ones. Rufus’ attention shifted away from it, first to Cornelia, whose smile was sharp like a knife and hidden partially behind a hand, and then to the man with more political power than the king’s own brother.

Rufus observed Rodrigue for a bit, taking in the worried furrow between the expressive brows and the slight shift of his mouth that threatened to sink into a frown. Lambert had always rendered him like this: anxious and helpless, though these days he covered it up pretty well. An adult, in body and spirit.

Same couldn’t be said for Rufus – he knew well what his former retainer would say. (Not that Rufus cared for what the old man of Gaspard region thought.)

“If you keep frowning like that, you’ll get more wrinkles than what you already have,” Rufus said to Rodrigue as Cornelia disappeared back into the castle. Off to contact one of her lackeys via whatever abominable magic she had at her use, no doubt.

(Or a messenger pigeon. Equally as abominable, for they shat everywhere.)

Rodrigue’s eyes followed Cornelia, a different kind of concern lingering in his gaze, before they snapped to Rufus’ direction. It had been a while since they had been alone together – hell, they might not have had alone time since the Sreng campaign came to an end all those years ago. Rufus hadn’t been the target of Rodrigue’s at times inscrutable, narrow-eyed stare since then, not like this. Now that it came from an older and more experienced man, it made Rufus almost nervous.

Ridiculous. He was the older one, four years senior to both Rodrigue and Lambert, he had the advantage.

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that warning now, Your Highness,” Rodrigue said, and the furrow between his brows eased as he chuckled at his own words. “His Majesty gives me much to worry about, as you must have heard.”

“I am well aware,” Rufus said, not joining in on the laughter. Whatever the reason for it was, he didn’t know, but he felt heavy. Uneasy. “You’ve always done so much more for him than he’s ever deserved.”

Rodrigue’s smile, however small it had been, vanished at that. The courtyard, if that even were possible, felt even colder and more desolate, but Rufus had never regretted badmouthing his little brother and he refused to start now.

It had gotten him a broken nose in Academy – hell, it had been this same man that stood beside him now that _gave_ him that broken nose – but Rufus was as stubborn in his beliefs as any other Blaiddyd.

“Your Highness,” Rodrigue began, his voice carefully even and void of any irritation. Instead, Rufus thought he detected some concern in it – concern for _him_? Ridiculous, Rodrigue had never… “His Majesty is not the kind of person you seem to have made him out to be in your head.”

From the corner of his eye, Rufus saw the Fraldarius kid disappear back into the castle, and only the goddess knew where he was off to. His ponytail swished in his wake, already longer than his father’s hair. Wavy, too, though it was difficult to tell when it was tied up that way.

As children, Lambert had always been dragging Rodrigue all around the place, even when the month older Fraldarius tried to protest. Rather weakly. Back then, he had been a miserable little thing that only found joy in Lambert’s presence, only smiled for real around him, like his burdens couldn’t affect him with the crown prince at his side.

It seemed that friendship reached the second generation, if the Fraldarius kid’s evident boredom at Dimitri’s disappearance was anything to go by.

Idly, Rufus wondered how the eldest of the Fraldarius boys felt about it.

“You always hold him in such high regard,” he drawled, not without some bitterness. He was well into his forties now – still in the early half of it, but that mattered little – and yet he had never been able to let go of it. “What has he done to deserve such appreciation? Asides from having a Crest and the natural ability to crack your ribs with a tight embrace.”

Rodrigue’s lips twitched into a frown. The facial hair really added to the severity of it – Rufus doubted anyone would take him quite so seriously if he were still as clean-shaven as he had been in his twenties. It had been a pretty face to kiss, but that was lost now.

“Lambert,” Rodrigue said, quietly but with a tone that demanded for Rufus to really listen to him, “cares for you, still. He may not know what to do with you, but he’s always been heartbroken about the way his relationship with you turned out. It wasn’t him that let his Crest get in the way between the two of you, Rufus.”

“What, it’s _my_ fault, then?” Rufus bristled, his teeth grinding together. “He was pampered rotten while I was tossed aside and ignored— _never_ given anything that I deserved or needed—”

“That is not his fault, either,” Rodrigue said firmly, the frown on his face deepening and his gloved hands clenching at his sides. A chilly wind brushed past them, and it sent strands of dark hair over Rodrigue’s face, from where he tucked them behind his ear again. “Lambert never asked for the attention being the crown prince brought with it – and never did he wish for you to be neglected.”

Into his forties he might be, and by no means was he getting any younger, but the childishly quick temper had never eased. Funny, because as a child he had been downright easygoing and far more forgiving – not that anyone would believe it now.

“And yet it all still happened,” Rufus said. “If he felt the way you claim he does, then why hasn’t he done anything to fix it?”

“Because you grow so agitated whenever he tries,” Rodrigue said patiently, though his eyes were sharp and much too seeing as they studied Rufus. It was the wolf, then. The sheep’s clothes had been set aside for now. But it wasn’t the wolf that tore his enemies apart in battle – it was the protective one, a wolf that bore his fangs at a threat to the pack.

A little too late for that. The thought tasted more bitter in Rufus’ mouth than he had imagined it to.

“Family can be the cause of great agony at times,” Rodrigue continued. “I know this well. As do you, of that I have no doubt. But family can also heal, if you allow yourself and your family that chance, Rufus.” Rodrigue’s eyes squinted with more visible feeling. “Even if you resent Lambert, his child at least has done nothing to spite you.”

His existence itself was an offense, Rufus would have liked to say but he managed to hold his tongue.

“Don’t speak as though you don’t resent your own children for taking away your chance at happiness,” Rufus said instead. The first words that came to his mind, and ones that he already knew to be false from how he had seen Rodrigue look at the two Fraldarius kids. He spoke them nevertheless, acidic taste on his tongue and the intent to hurt making his fingers curl. “It’s the same story for every damned noble house. Duties and children and children duties stealing the whimsical dreams of people’s youths away.”

Finally, the first glimpse of true anger on Rodrigue’s face. “There are many things I regret in my life,” he said, his voice straining to remain even, “but my children have never counted among those.”

It was true, Rufus knew. He hadn’t been in the capital for the knighting of Rodrigue’s eldest son two years ago, but the stories carried wide. A Crestless boy of fifteen years, knighted and taken into the Royal Guard. He wasn’t the only Crestless knight by any means, but he was the youngest chosen to guard His Majesty.

“Oh, how proud Duke Fraldarius must be!” people had whispered, and Rufus had thought the same, though with an odd feeling pressing against his chest from knowledge that there was a Crestless child out there that was cherished for what he was.

Rufus had only met Glenn Victor Fraldarius briefly, never for longer than for passing niceties, but it was clear he took after his grandfather more than Rodrigue.

Even so, Rodrigue had always looked at him with such fond pride, as though the bad memories from his past didn’t matter.

Perhaps it was because Rodrigue’s own monster was dead – had been dead for _years_ now. Made things easier for him that way.

But Lambert was still alive.

(For a few days – perhaps a fortnight longer. But he was as good as gone from Rufus’ life already, and it should have lifted his spirits up more than it did.)

“I have always,” Rufus said, muttering more to himself than to Rodrigue, as he stared up to the cloudy skies rather than the face of his childhood friend, “found children to be awful nuisances.”

Rodrigue’s sigh was soft, but clearly disappointed. “I wasn’t under any other impression, Your Highness,” he said. Back to formalities. Rufus wasn’t surprised, and he swallowed down his own bad feelings. He had lost what he had once had ten times over the course of the past years, anyway. “Otherwise you might have married one of your mistresses already.”

“Had you been a woman, perhaps our fathers would have had us marry,” Rufus said lightly, speaking before thinking – not an unusual event for him, had never been. That was why his father had been so loathe to have him in court. _The youngest Gautier is an awful influence on him_ , the late king had always liked to say while stroking his greying beard. Rufus shook the thought off, and continued mirthlessly, “There are worse destinies out there than what that’d have been.”

A hawk flew far up in the sky above them, either going to or coming from a hunt. Either way, it was free.

Another breeze came by, hitting Rufus square in the face, and so he wrinkled his nose and made a face as he brought his head down again, his gaze tilted towards Rodrigue. Deep grey-blue eyes stared back at him.

“Such what-ifs are pointless,” Rodrigue told him, though he looked pained. As ever, it was subtle – the furrow between his brows contained much feeling. Resignation, perhaps. “We can only accept the reality for what it is, and live it as best as our stations allow, Rufus.”

“You are correct, as ever, Duke Fraldarius,” Rufus acknowledged, both with his words and an acquiescing nod of his head as anger finally swept out of him, perhaps due to the chilly wind that would soon give way to cold rain. “It is a pity our realities turned out this way, then.” Rufus’ mouth curled upwards once more. “Had you not spurned me during the Sreng campaign, perhaps—”

“Rufus, that’s enough,” Rodrigue interjected. He could get away with cutting off the king’s own brother well enough – he rarely chose to do so these days, but these topics always wore his endless patience thin. Now, Rodrigue readjusted the teal-colored cape clasped over his shoulders, gloved fingers lingering on the white fur lining the thick fabric. His brows furrowed deeper, and his shoulders sank as he said, “Unlike Lambert, you need not pay any heed to my counsel, of course. Still, I suggest you consider it – it might benefit not only your house but your own happiness as well.”

Rufus said nothing, and so Rodrigue bowed before excusing himself to fetch his wayward son so that they could set on their journey back to their territory just south of both Itha and Fhirdiad. With them would also go the few knights that had come with them, as loyal to their lord duke as he was to his king.

Rufus withdrew inside the castle as well, but an hour later he would glance outside from one of the windows in his personal quarters and catch sight of Rodrigue and his son approaching the carriage, Rodrigue’s hand in his son’s hair, most likely ruffling or patting it. From the distance between ground and Rufus’ window, it was difficult to tell.

Within the quarter of the hour, the Fraldarius carriage, accompanied by their knights, took off, and Fhirdiad became a much lonelier place.

What an odd thing to feel.

They had long since ceased their affair – and their friendship with it.

Yet, why did Rufus suddenly feel so desolate?

 _Reconcile with Lambert_ , the suggestion rang in his ears as he turned away from the window.

What a useless thing to suggest.

It was far too late already.

* * *

That night, he joined Cornelia for a cup of wine in the parlor directly downstairs from Rufus’ bed chambers. She was in a particularly giddy mood, if her snake-like smile was anything to go by, and it rubbed off on Rufus as well, erasing the momentary weakness from before.

The flames from the fireplace cast shadows across the room, some of which danced on Cornelia’s peach pink hair and down on her bare shoulders. How she managed without furs was a question for another day, because Rufus wasn’t going to complain about the sight now.

He supposed the feathery monstrosity draped loosely over her arms counted, but it still left her shoulders exposed.

In any case, he was in a better mood than he had been that morning, Lambert’s presence already lifting its heavy presence off from his mind and heart. Somewhere out there, justice would soon take place, and whatever complicated feeling Rufus had felt before was long gone.

And so, when Cornelia lifted her glass filled with Gautier’s finest ice wine and said, satisfied like a cat that had finished off a rat, “Long live His Majesty, King Lambert of Faerghus”, Rufus smiled.

He lifted his own glass to clink it with hers, repeating her words back at her with a low voice that held no doubt or regret: “Long live His Majesty.”

That night he slept alone in the bed that had once seen him and Duke Fraldarius frolicking about. An unusual occurrence – even more unusual was how he slept better than he had in years.

The taste of long-struggled victory was stronger than any sleep-inducing concoction.

* * *

Little did he know, in five years’ time, he would follow his brother in death.

* * *

A long-forgotten memory by the two people that lived through it:

Rufus is 12 years of age and minding his business for most part after a training session with his teacher has gone a little wonky. (It’s that ginger-haired knight that also teaches tactics and strategy to Lambert and, occasionally, the little Fraldarius kid that looks at the world around him with such sad doe-like eyes.)

He’s just gotten out of the training grounds and is on his way to his mother’s room to report on his successes and failures when he notices his little brother sitting beside a door leading into one of the infirmaries. This one is strategically located near both the training grounds and the mess hall meant for the knights (though Rufus knows Lambert has sneaked in there more than once to snack on possible leftovers).

Upon closer inspection, and after taking a few steps closer to his eight-year-old brother, Rufus catches the soft sniffling noises and the way Lambert’s buried his face into his knees, blond hair sticking out haphazardly despite its short cut.

Lambert has always been a little more emotional of the two brothers but seeing him cry outright is still _rare_. Hearing it makes Rufus pause for a bit before he kneels beside his little brother and pokes at the top of his head. “What’s the matter with you today, huh?”

Lambert sniffles louder before lifting up his head, showing his red-rimmed eyes that usually shine so bright but now look dull with fear. His voice comes out weak, unusual for the charming little crown prince. “Rod is—I did something horrible, but it was an accident, I didn’t mean to – healers are healing him, but they said he has a – a…”

Ah, Rufus should have known – when something upset Lambert, it always has something to do either with the Fraldarius kid or Rufus himself. Not that Rufus does it on purpose! It’s just fun to tease Lambert a little for being like a leech whenever Rodrigue comes around with the rest of his house.

“A what, Lambert?” Rufus asks, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“A broken rib, they said.” Lambert sniffs again, and his eyes look worryingly watery. “It looked like it really hurt, but I was just… hugging him…”

Rufus grimaces despite himself.

Just two years prior, when he was ten, he broke a rib of his own when he’d been taken out hunting with his father and the royal knights. It had not been a pleasant experience, and Rufus has avoided the forest _and_ ponies (and horses) since then.

Lambert hasn’t really broken ribs before, though. He has managed to twist Rufus’ wrist until the older brother screamed, but that’s the worst he’s ever (accidentally) done so far.

 _What a cursed thing_ , Rufus thinks as he scoots over to Lambert’s side and comforts his little brother as well as he can, _that Crest of our house._

His relief at not having that damned thing would only last for a year or two longer before it would turn into a seething hatred of Lambert for having the said thing.

The Goddess of Fódlan must truly despise siblings.

* * *

Somewhere in Castle Fhirdiad – or rather, in a very precise room that once belonged to a queen of Faerghus, the one that birthed both Rufus Algernon and Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd – a warm-colored painting remains from a time long-forgotten by everyone but the most sentimental of people.

It’s a simple portrait of four people against a warm brown background, and a careful eye might recognize these four children that are depicted either sitting or standing.

The oldest boys – one blond, one redhead – stand tall, the redhead’s arm loosely wrapped over his blond companion’s. Both their faces sport wide smiles: the blond boy has straight teeth but is missing one, and the redhead’s are crooked. Still, their smiles are as full of joy as any even relatively warm summer day.

They must have been good friends at the time – such is the impression the painting gives.

One is 12, the other 14. The two oldest of the bunch of four.

Below them, seated upon chairs, are two children aged eight, born within a month from one another. One is grinning wide and wild, the other one wears a much more subdued look. The first is the blond, sitting right beneath his standing big brother – oh, the family resemblance is so obvious when you take a closer look at the painting. The older brother’s hand rests in the younger one’s hair, a sign of affection that shall forever be memorized on canvas.

The other boy seated upon a wooden chair is a youth with gloomy dark hair that runs down his cheeks in curling waves. He, too, is smiling – but it is a softer, subtler expression, one that looks easily broken.

His and the other boy’s hands are at the epicenter of the painting, clumsily holding one another like little boys do.

They would never let go, but the painting doesn’t know that. It does not predict the rift that happens between the two older boys, nor the anger the 12-year-old Rufus Algernon Blaiddyd would nurse well into his adulthood.

There is no tragedy yet, in the world of this painting.

Only four childhood friends – three Crested and one Crestless. That is where the seed of the tragedy festers, in the end.

Such a cruel, irrational world lies beyond the painting.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Cat Pierce's "You Belong to Me", and some of the lyrics that helped me write this include:
> 
> Crawl into my heart, take me apart  
> Do what you please to me, I won't resist  
> Find what you're seeking, I am not leaving  
> 'Til I am drunk, loved up, bitten, and kissed
> 
> I've heard allegations 'bout your reputation  
> I'll show you my shadows if you show yours  
> Let's get it right dear, give a good fight dear  
> We'll keep it all up behind closed doors


End file.
